“I want my mate back,” I shouted up, the words reverberating in the great hall.

“Well you can’t have him,” said the Liver Bird with a taunting tone, “I have a very special guest coming, and I’m serving him for dinner.” He paced the raised stone stage slowly, looking down at me, all seven despicable, preening feet of him.

We’d been having quite an enjoyable afternoon until the point where the Liver Bird snatched Jack Dudley. The Honorable and Worthy Peddlars tended to travel in great numbers at that time, before Nobby Clarke, Ken Jessop and other left-wing proselytizers splintered off to form the Internationalist Cyclist Anarchist Collective and Social Club. At a quieter part of the Public Bar, away from Ken and Nobby’s revolutionary chatter and excited talk of our chances of returning to Wembley next May, Jack had been discussing gardening with Dicky Maltley, whose allotment was known as the Eden of Ettingshall. Dicky could go on a bit, it has to be said, and Jack had found himself short of Craven ‘A’ after doing so much listening, so he’d popped out to a nearby shop for some more. A few minutes later, when Ken Jessop and I were heading out of the pub for the same reason, we saw the giant bird swoop down Barlow Lane and snatch Jack (lighting the first fag of his new packet) by the collar of his overcoat and fly away, like an anti-stork. Ken had resolved to discuss the matter with his comrades immediately, while I had snatched my bike and pedalled furiously after the bird all the way to this oversized mansion in Croxteth. It had taken some time to discover where in the grounds Jack was, and by the time I found him he was stood upon a shelf behind the Liver Bird’s stage, bound by rope. Below him on the stage a large cauldron simmered. It actually smelt quite good but the thought of Jack bubbling away in it turned my stomach. It would be upon me to explain the unfortunate episode to his Margaret, as well, and that thought was hardly appetizing.

The Honorable and Worthy Peddlars tended to travel in great numbers at that time, before Nobby Clarke, Ken Jessop and other left-wing proselytizers splintered off to form the Internationalist Cyclist Anarchist Collective and Social Club.

I looked up at the Liver Bird. He seemed to be waiting for something.

“You can’t cook him,” I protested, “It’s… it’s against the law.”

“Ha!” sneered the fowl, all seven foot of him, “Here my will is the only law. Though I do pay my rates on this place and they are frankly extortionate. Do you have a Labour council where you are from?”

“I’m not talking politics with you,” I said, indignantly, while surreptitiously scanning the walls for a way I might scale up to Jack. “Anyway, if you can’t afford the rates why don’t you move somewhere smaller?”

“It’s mostly a question of scale,” said the Liver Bird, and as if to illustrate his point he took off and flew around the hall, creating a considerable breeze with his giant wings, before coming back to rest on his stage, “a two-up-two-down in Garston isn’t quite suitable for our needs, know what I mean, like?”

Was that the royal ‘we’ he was using? Though I wouldn’t have put it past him, more likely there were more of his kind here; I tried to disguise my concern at this and asked some mundane stuff about heating bills, maintenance and the like. On his shelf, Jack struggled against the ropes while the steam rose in ever denser wafts from the cauldron.

The Liver Otter strolled into the hall, reared up on its hind legs and stirred the pot, tasting the stock and adding a little salt before heading back out the way he’d come.

I didn’t have to wait long for my suspicions to be confirmed: after a minute or so of the Liver Bird’s dreary complaints about the cost of lead for the roof and the effect that the post-war building programme was having on the availability of building materials, the Liver Otter strolled into the hall, reared up on its hind legs and stirred the pot, tasting the stock and adding a little salt before heading back out the way he’d come.

“And he doesn’t come cheap, either,” crowed the Liver Bird, lifting his beak up towards the door distainfully. “I think he’s overcharging me on the ingredients, too. Makes a decent enough scouse, though, I suppose.”

“You didn’t pay much for today’s ingredients, did you?” I said, calculating my chances of scaling the stonework up to Jack’s shelf.

“There are some things money can’t buy,” said the bird.

“You know, my friend has a wonderful allotment. I could get you some lovely veg, in exchange…”

“Never! Any way, my friend doesn’t eat vegetables.”

“Who else do you have working here?” asked Jack from up on the shelf, fatigued by now with struggling against the ropes for no gain.

“The Liver Monkey takes care of the gardens, and the Liver Rat does odd jobs, cleans the windows, builds the fires, that sort of thing. The Liver Pony and the Liver Squirrel do the cleaning, and the Liver Cheetah is my personal secretary. Oh, and the Liver Rhino looks after my security….”

“Not any more he doesn’t,” came a deep bass from the entrance. Through the imposing double doorway the Liver Rhino entered, followed by the rest of the Liver Help and, to my surprise, the Honorable and Worthy Peddlars. “As of today these grounds and properties are under the administration of the Syndicate of Liver Anarchists. Stand down, Liver Bird, from the perch of privilege and totalitarianism you have occupied for far too long.”

“What are you talking about, you lumpen dolt?” snapped the Liver Bird.

“Comrades Jessop and Clarke have opened our eyes to the injustice and exploitation that has been carried out upon us for these many long years. The Liver Animals will no longer do your bidding, but will run this place as an Anarchist Cooperative. The Liver Monkey is already digging up the flowerbeds with a view to planting some broad beans.”

“You’d better wait for October before planting,” interrupted Dicky Maltley quietly, “You’re a bit early yet.”

“Calm down, calm down. You can’t do this. Look at all I’ve done for you, like. Where’s the gratitude, eh? Eh?”

…we pedalled as if we were chasing a thousand Liver Birds…

“Here,” said the Liver Squirrel, handing him a broom, “Give your beak something useful to do. There’s a cobweb up there in the corner. And untie that human while you’re up there, Comrade.” At this the Liver Anarchists and the Honorable and Worthy Peddlars all cheered, and, with a resentful sneer, the Liver Bird took the broom and set to work, first sweeping cobwebs and then freeing Jack Dudley. Once he’d returned him to ground level, and after hearty thanks to Clarke, Jessop and the other left-wing proselytizers amongst the ranks of the H & WP, the Liver Animals set about the cooperative’s first committee meeting, while we mounted our machines to get over to Goodison. The Liver Bird’s guest, the Liver Tiger, arrived just as we were setting off, and Nobby Clarke warned him in no uncertain terms that the revolution was inevitable and the Liver Feline would put himself in great danger and historical anachronism if he tried anything reactionary once we’d left. We pedalled as if we were chasing a thousand Liver Birds and arrived just in time for the kick-off of a game Cullis’s cup holders would go on to win 2-1: a great result whatever your politics and up the blooming Wolves!