The Vote: Shanghai or bust?

THERE was a time, many years ago, when Shanghai was controlled by foreign powers who valued its position at the mouth of the Yangtze.

if the local state controlled media is to be believed, Shanghai has put down her drink, winked at her mates, and is about to strut her funky stuff with the snotty nosed scouse lad who had the guts to ask. Serious. Long term.

They used it for their own ends as a pseudo colonialist outpost from which opium and other raw materials spewed across the globe to many other similar mucky brown rivers, including our very own Mersey.

But like all good rivers the tide went both ways and the ships that arrived laden also left laden, weighed down with the textiles and produce from our own dark satanic mills bound for the Chinese interior. To such an extent that cotton industry in that developing and industrially backward country was crushed under the weight of foreign goods.

How times have changed. Now, many years later, our opium arrives in false bottoms (no jokes please) and the North West's dark, satanic mills are “light and airy bijou apartments to let”.

Our once-mighty imperial rulers stand, like spotty boys at a disco trying to catch the pretty girl's eye. Well, one of them, after watching from afar, has swallowed their pride, sauntered over and said those all important words, “Do ya wanna dance?”

And, if the local state controlled media is to be believed, Shanghai has put down her drink, winked at her mates, and is about to strut her funky stuff with the snotty nosed scouse lad who had the guts to ask. Serious. Long term.

The only problem with this wonderful fledgling romance is that Shanghai is proving to be no cheap date.

It’s fair to say, this one isn’t going to end up with a bag of chips and a bus ride home. This one will need making a fuss of: a full sausage dinner, a bottle of Lambrini and a taxi.

But that’s not all; she also wants serenading by the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra and The Wombats (a popular beat combo m’lord) among many others, for one hot night, also known as Liverpool Day. If you don't know what that is click here.

One might wonder why not go the whole hog and chuck in a Ringo on the roof?

Now with all expensive dates there is a complicated mathematical formula that needs to be undertaken to assess if the expected expenditure is going to offer a suitable return, or, to put it another way: “Am I on for a shag or not?”

And this is the question that Liverpool has to ask before it sticks its hand in its pocket to provide for another £380,000 pickled egg.

Despite being strapped for cash, our leaders reckon she is a cert: they are of the belief that in the morning, when we wake, we will glance across at a tousle haired Shanghai, who will smile playfully and lean across, brush her lips against our ear and whisper: “Oh yes big boy, let’s go again.”

They reckon that in the pub later, Birmingham, London and Manchester will gather around and press us for details of how it went.

“Did you get anything?”

“Has she got a mate?”

“When did you last win the league?”

But, if they are to be believed we will lean back on the bar and smile smugly and say. “I think I’ve cracked it with this one.”

Or... we might just end up walking home, on our own. Skint.

Tony Schumacher

*What do you think? Should we cut our cloth according to our means, where Liverpool Day is concerned? Have we have spent enough already? Or should we speculate to accumulate the riches there to be reaped from this once-in-a-lifetime event?

Go on yer, vote on the homepage - and after this we might never mention it again.