Liverpool One opens its back yard

LIVERPOOL One has given Gordo a sly little glimpse of its new backyard, Chavasse Park, but it was in the middle of a slight deluge.

Fortunately, at the time, Gordo happened to be knocking back a couple in his new favourite boozer, The Monro. Cracking place, nicely refurbished in a soft, gentle manner, with the same heroic upmarket pub grub. Go. It’s good.

Arriving at the designated area a little late, the rain had stopped and Gordo could clearly see some fab stuff. Canapés by the star chef, Paul Askew of The London Carriage Works, and Hilary Kinsella, all-round fit bird looking after the marketing of Liverpool One.

Gordo struggled to decide which to get stuck into first. The canapés won. Proper champagne an' all. Nothing wrong with this bash.

Ian Pollitt, from Peel Holdings and Gordo’s drinking pal, was there with his missus, the lovely Jane.

The nice people at Jaguar had parked a few new motors on the drive but wouldn’t let Gordo near them. Hilary kept sliding in and out of them all night. They looked good mind you. At one point they had started to look like your granddad's replacement for a Rover, but they are on top design form these days.

Gordo then spied the woman he loves above all others. Joanne Jennings, she of the great form, laughing eyes and expensive shoes. “Joanne! I have missed you darling,” greases Gordo. Joanne’s lovely lips started to work their magic.

“How lovely to see you!” says the Irish

filly. The green eyes said: “Who the bloody hell is this balding simpleton?”

Gordo, not to be put off by body language that would have warned Idi Amin to stay away, soldiered on. “Where are you going after this?” he ventured. “Erm, well, there is a party up at the Carriage Works”.

Hilary was glaring at him. Clearly, someone was irritating that little bundle of loveliness.

“Fab!” Gordo breezes, “I'll see you up there....” as Hilary and Joanne promptly vanish into the night.

Sometime later, Gordo was at the bar, having invested heavily in that chewing gum toothpaste stuff in the toilets of the Irish Pub up at the top of Seel Street, the one with the quaint name of ‘Kiss My Arse’ in Gaelic, a language not unknown to Gordo after a half bottle of Jamieson's and a few scoops of stout.

Joanne didn’t show. Gordo knows that it would be something pretty terrible to keep his true love away from him, at least a plane crash, so he consoled himself with taking a few snaps of girlies' shoes around the bar.

Liverpool girls still know how to get to a bloke's heart.