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Now this was no ordinary ceiling, it was like Joseph's amazing technicolour dreamcoat but was badly faded. He wanted the lovely tiling on the walls buffing to be able to see your face in them too. He had a colour scheme in mind then drove with us to Rapids in Renshaw Street. 'Oasis' was the rich terracotta colour chosen as well as a 'wedgewood' blue - another half dozen tins of paint of varying colours followed including greens and reds then off we went to the Pier Head where he bought us all cups of tea in those polystyrene cups and we went up on the roof of the bus terminus building overlooking the Mersey to one side, the roofs of the diagonally parked buses to the other. I was thinking of all the poor sods doing the real graft back at base while we were on a jolly. He was alright was Bob. He stared ahead drinking his tea as a police siren sounded off ithe distance. 'it's getting like bladdy New York' he said - in his almost fake American accent we would come to skit him about, behind his back of course. 'Right' he said 'Come on back to work' I almost spluttered. Chris and I had only taken a sip of this roasting hot, not very milky tea and old asbestos stomach had downed his.
We were up there painting away one day when he summoned us down. The Royal Liverpool hospital had bought some of the paintings in the gallery and we were to go with him to help carry them etc - he wasn't one to get his fingernails dirty, nor his flowery bermuda type shirts he was prone to wear. At the front of the ozzy, he said 'here we go, they're for the chapel' and started reversing the little van up towards the entrance to the chapel which is that red brick construction just by the main entrance. A fella come out waving his hand saying 'oy, no, you can't reverse up here, it's consecrated ground'. Bob, deadpan said 'What do you want us to do then, float up?' Needless to say, the van was reversed up and that's where it stayed for as long as it took.
Back at the sistine chapel, we were having yet another break as we looked out of the window across St. Johns Gardens. This job was a bit of a back breaker and also done your neck in. It had to be done in fits and starts, well that's my excuse for stringing it out for four months anyway. We also had to pull the scaffolding around the room by hand, across those lovely little mosaic floor tiles that were getting all cracked, it was sacrilege. We felt the scaffolding shake and looked down to see our mate Martin Jones climbing up. Time for another break. We'd play an A-Z game, like the one so popular on Yo. We'd do pop groups first. A: I'd have Abba, Chris would chip in with America then Mart with the Animals, then it'd be Chris's turn to start B, then Mart C etc. I always remember worrying if i'd get first shout on Q - my mind racing ahead, otherwise you'd struggle after Queen, speaking of whom, we soon learned was Martin's favourite group.
Back up at the tea room and the talk was all about Stan getting the sack. Stan came into work each day with a kwik save carrier bag. His carrying out we thought, only it seemed he was carrying out the lead from the roof ha ha. Back into our little safe haven of the room with no bosses watching over us and having bought some stink bombs from the Ace Place we lashed them at the wall facing us across the well at the back of the building where our old neighbours and school mates the two Franks were working up the scaffold. We heard them smash then ducked back in. During the afternoon tea break, all the jealous b'stards were remarking about how the two blue eyed boys had got this cushy job painting a bloody ceiling when Frank Tasker turned to us and said 'The f'kin drains stink where me and Ryano are working'
So, one day it turns out that it's Alan Constantine's 18th and the plan is to down tools, well brushes in our case and all go over to the pie shop which was the local name for the Byrom public house. It's dinner time and we all traipse in there, probably trebling the takings for that week as the hour turns into two before Eric and Nicky waltz in saying 'err come on - back to work'. The shouts of derision ranging from 'fcuk off' to 'stick yer job up yer arse' left him open mouthed before they gave in, joining us for a pint before leaving saying 'c'mon lads, back after this one'. That approach went down a lot better and by three o'clock we decided not to push our luck but not a lot of painting got done that afternoon with what looked like a double brush.
Chris and I had nicknames for most of the lads. One lad was Bernie Flint to us, just simply because he looked like him We never knew his real name so just called him Bernie and he inexplicably answered to it every time which just made it funnier, well we were only 17 you know. Another lad who was Gordon and quite springy on his feet became Gordon Lightfoot. He worked a lot with the electrician who spent all of his dinner time in the Sportsman pub in the precinct - bugger that - drunkeness and lecky??? Another lad who was Ian just happened to look a bit like Ian Ogilvy so that's who he became and this went on.
There are many more stories like the one were we all had to go to Brownlow Hill post office to cash our wages when Dale, thinking he could jump the queue just because he was some relation to the task masters, got well and truly told where to go but i'll let Mart tell you all about the downfall of the St. Johns House Empire and the subsequent ahem err police involvement - if he dare
Chris around this time.
Franky Ryan (left) enjoying a pint in Concert Square in the sun last year. He hasn't changed much in all those years.
St. Johns House went on to house the clubs Earl St. Johns and Rockfords in the 1980s.
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