It takes a lot to get the hard-bitten, straight talking people of Liverpool into a fit of sentimentalism but today, the banks of the Mersey have broken as the river swells with the tears of a people robbed of the greatest lady of all and every man, woman and child is quite literally drowning in grief. In her life, she suffered adversity like no other. She was vomited on, defecated upon from tremendous heights, pissed on right into her mouth, masturbated upon by flying baboons, and that was just in my Liverpool match reports. Talk about betrayal. But back she came, every time, with a chirpy quip and a “Surprise, surprise”.
Heart, hope and passion. Cilla Priscilla White-Black was born in Liverpool in 1943 in a one-up, one-down terraced house that had been demolished in 1937. Life was hard in the community she grew up in but there was spirit; we all looked out for one another. When times were hard, we’d burgle each others’ houses and share and share alike between us what we’d managed to nick right under the noses of the bizzies.
No one could hold a note like our Cilla. I saw her once at the Cavern Club where she worked the cloakroom, holding a one pound note given her by Brian Epstein for over ten minutes. She was transfixed, staring at it, saying over and over again, “Money . . . mon-ey”.
I’ll never forget when she made it onto that telly in the 1960s. Every other Saturday, at Anfield Stadium, there’d be 50,000 of us watching Ian St John, Ron Yeats showing West Ham or some woolybacks what football was all about as we sang along with throats in our hearts and guts in our mouths, never walking alone. Then, the whole crowd would stay behind as they trundled out a 12-inch screen black and white telly rented from Grundigs into the middle of the centre circle and we’d watch The Cilla Black Show, all singing along to “Alfie”. Even if you couldn’t see or hear a thing it was like she was singing right for you, in your own living room, like.
Then there were the lies; that “Our Cilla” was rude to airplane staff; that she voted Conservative; that towards the end of her life, she moved to Spain. First off, how could Cilla be rude to airplane staff when she never got on a plane in her life? If you need to get anywhere in Liverpool, you just get the ferry across the Mersey, where most mornings you’ll probably find yourself sitting next to Jimmy Tarbuck, or Paul McCartney, or Ringo Starr or Stan Boardman, or Carla Lane, though if you’re sitting next to “our Carla” make sure it’s an aisle seat because the aisle’s where you’ll be rolling once she’s got going with her jokes and that!
At the end of the day, the thing about “Our Cilla” is it didn’t matter where you came from; whether you were from Liverpool or Everton, you’d go knock on her door and she’d greet you with a hilarious “What’s yer name and where d’you come from?” and then, “Here’s our Graham with a quick reminder.", and, as you were leaving her little terraced house, she’d see you off with a cheery “What’s yer name and where d’you come from?” and then, “Here’s our Graham with a quick reminder”.
This is a sad day; the blackest since Stevie G was hounded out of Liverpool. All I can say, finally, is this; you flying baboons – from now on, you’ll be wanking on a grave.
Heart, hope and passion. Cilla Priscilla White-Black was born in Liverpool in 1943 in a one-up, one-down terraced house that had been demolished in 1937. Life was hard in the community she grew up in but there was spirit; we all looked out for one another. When times were hard, we’d burgle each others’ houses and share and share alike between us what we’d managed to nick right under the noses of the bizzies.
No one could hold a note like our Cilla. I saw her once at the Cavern Club where she worked the cloakroom, holding a one pound note given her by Brian Epstein for over ten minutes. She was transfixed, staring at it, saying over and over again, “Money . . . mon-ey”.
I’ll never forget when she made it onto that telly in the 1960s. Every other Saturday, at Anfield Stadium, there’d be 50,000 of us watching Ian St John, Ron Yeats showing West Ham or some woolybacks what football was all about as we sang along with throats in our hearts and guts in our mouths, never walking alone. Then, the whole crowd would stay behind as they trundled out a 12-inch screen black and white telly rented from Grundigs into the middle of the centre circle and we’d watch The Cilla Black Show, all singing along to “Alfie”. Even if you couldn’t see or hear a thing it was like she was singing right for you, in your own living room, like.
Then there were the lies; that “Our Cilla” was rude to airplane staff; that she voted Conservative; that towards the end of her life, she moved to Spain. First off, how could Cilla be rude to airplane staff when she never got on a plane in her life? If you need to get anywhere in Liverpool, you just get the ferry across the Mersey, where most mornings you’ll probably find yourself sitting next to Jimmy Tarbuck, or Paul McCartney, or Ringo Starr or Stan Boardman, or Carla Lane, though if you’re sitting next to “our Carla” make sure it’s an aisle seat because the aisle’s where you’ll be rolling once she’s got going with her jokes and that!
At the end of the day, the thing about “Our Cilla” is it didn’t matter where you came from; whether you were from Liverpool or Everton, you’d go knock on her door and she’d greet you with a hilarious “What’s yer name and where d’you come from?” and then, “Here’s our Graham with a quick reminder.", and, as you were leaving her little terraced house, she’d see you off with a cheery “What’s yer name and where d’you come from?” and then, “Here’s our Graham with a quick reminder”.
This is a sad day; the blackest since Stevie G was hounded out of Liverpool. All I can say, finally, is this; you flying baboons – from now on, you’ll be wanking on a grave.
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