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About Liverpool

So, I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own damn business, when this chick—prolly 5’2”, heels makin’ her 5’10”—saunters up. “Hey, big guy, need company?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather skin a bear with a spoon. “I don’t pay for that,” I grunt, deadpan as hell. She laughs, like I’m some chump. Pisses me off. Hate everything about it—fake giggles, cheap perfume stingin’ my nose. Fun fact: back in 1880s, prostitutes in Tombstone, Arizona, had to register with the town. Called ‘em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Still stinks like desperation.

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So, I duck into a café on Foss Street. It’s cozy, smells like fresh coffee, and I’m like, “Okay, this is better.” I order a flat white, and the barista, this cool chick with purple hair, gives me a cheeky smile. I’m thinking, “Maybe today’s not a total washout.” But then, I spill my coffee all over the table. Like, how clumsy can I be? I’m mortified. She just laughs and says, “Don’t worry, mate. It happens.” I love that vibe.

John Suchet on his love of his Devon home