Tell me what's your new fella's favourite Liverpool club and I'll tell you how he is

You have met this guy in Liverpool and he seems brilliant so far: he's handsome, enthusiastic, has a nice strut and thinks everything is boss. However, is he really the one? The good news is that I can help you find out: I just need to know what Liverpool pub he chooses to take you to on your first date.

This could be you but he playin'

BUYER'S CLUB

This very isolated and surprisingly huge pub is located in Hardman Street, and the name of the street couldn't be more accurate because finding the actual place is so hard, man. Buyer's Club is a nice, laid-back kind of pub, and it's probably one of the best in town to get to know someone, however it is quite hidden and I'd be quite suspicious if a new boy wanted to take me there as a first option. I'm deeply sorry to say this, but if this is where your new lambanana-man has suggested to meet, there's a small possibility that you're in fact a mersey-side chick. It once took me 35 minutes to find its door. Okay, I'm not very bright, I'll give you that. BUT STILL...

If he proves to be a cheater don't blame it on the place: it has great music, food and occasional film screenings. Just use it to meet your secret Mancunian lover instead.

Intimate: Buyer's Club

THE CAVERN

I need some fresh air lad

When I first arrived in Liverpool I was surprised to find out that The Cavern is not the most popular place for young Scousers, even though it may be the most iconic pub in town (or, let's be honest, in the world) and an unmissable spot. If you new man takes you here I bet he's a foreigner, perhaps a cute international student from the Liverpool School of English, or a lad holidayer who has lost his flock. Nevertheless, if you happen not to be British (as it's my case) he may just be trying to get you into the mersey sound spirit (we all know you kiss a John Lennon's photo before bedtime anyway). Wherever he's from, you'll have a good time whilst downing pints, pretending it's the sixties and murdering some Beatles tunes by screaming the lyrics at the top of your lungs. However, restrain from using too much air: The Cavern's owners weren't messing when they named the place and it's in fact so deep and window-less that I'm surprised Margaret Thatcher never closed it down.

HEEBIE JEEBIES

ffs go outside even if you don't smoke

If you've ever been out on a Saturday night with a group of Scousers, you'll know that a stop at Heebies is almost compulsory,and the truth is that you cannot say you have fully experienced the Liverpudlian nightlife if you haven't been there. If he takes you to Heebies after one in the morning, he knows what's good and he's a party man, however the place is so popular that I assure you you'll have to queue in the cold for at least twenty minutes until your legs match your new blue dress. The good news is that you can use this time to determine if the lad is a gobshite or not. If he happens to be a liar at least you'll know what his real name and age are because the bouncers are gonna scan his passport, so if for some reason you suspect he's actually two little children in a big coat, the Heebies staff will clear your doubts. If he happens to be a bore, don't you worry, don't you worry, child: Heebies is full of possibilities: just go have a ciggie outside like a tortured poet (hint, the actual party is at the patio), lose yourself on the dancefloor or debunk patriarchy with the girls you'll meet at the bathroom. It's simply impossible to be alone in that place.

THE PHILARMONIC

kinell

The Philarmonic is the Regina George of Liverpool pubs: gorgeous, elegant, and you may even think you don't even deserve to be there once you step inside. But don't escape through the bathroom window so quickly: it is not what it seems, as food and drinks there are actually quite affordable. If this boy of yours takes you to The Philarmonic my guess is that he's a proud Scouser showing off his city, or maybe an Oscar Wilde fanboy. Enjoy sipping on tea and feeling fab and decide later if you want him to paint you like one of his French berds.

THE PILGRIM

Just look at that

I like this guy already. If he takes you to The Pilgrim, an Irish pub located on a charming cobblestone road in the city centre, he's a straightforward boy, basically because the place is quite simple: nice and cheap drinks, great atmosphere, always a yes. And once you've both fallen into the magic of young love (or wine, it doesn't really matter) like two loving leprechauns, a breathtaking view of the Anglican church will be waiting for you two outside.

YE CRACKE

John Lennon knew where to take his berds

There's something incredibly appealing about this place, but I'll never be able to point out what it is exactly. And I don't know why I feel like a 70s pimp when I go there either. It is located in a very quiet, almost secret area near Hope Street and it's small, and charming, and very English. The pub is famous because our man John Lennon used to sneak in there with his friends when he bunked off school, and your new lil rebel is not gonna be different. 

JACARANDA

Put on your red shoes and dance the blues

Personally, I'd be impressed by him knowing where it is, so if he takes you there, you need to know that he may be a cool cat. Jacaranda is a cozy, retro-style small pub at the heart of Liverpool's best party area, and it plays tune after tune. For some reason I relate it to Britpop, so if you tell me your new fella has taken you there I'll imagine he looks a bit like Jarvis Cocker. As a plus, the place has a jukebox so once you're smashed enough you can spend all those coins that are gonna be essential to pay for your cab ride home in requesting that they play "Common People" one more time. As a personal piece of advice, try not to mantain eye contact with your date while you sing the verse "I want to sleep with common people like you". Only in case you don't want to, of course.

ALMA DE CUBA

Looks like I'd need to become a stripper to pay for a drink there

For me, this is like the philosopher stone of Liverpool clubs: I've heard about it, I've read about it, I've been repeatedly told to go, and even though I may be the only person in town who can actually pronounce its name, I have never been there. As far as I know it is a luxurious, glamourous place so my guess is that if he suggests going there he's gonna be quiet classy. If you have latin origins, it may also be a wink at them. If this is your case please tell me how it is in there, as I have only caught a glimpse of it while being dragged by an horde of Scousers to Heebies.

CA VA

Down it, down it

This small pub in Wood Street is an amusing park for your pallate as it has the biggest flavoured tequila selection I have ever seen in my life. If your date begins here, this guy is gonna be a go hard or go home type of boy. You'll probably begin the night smiling shyly and going for the classic flavours (lime, sour lemon...) but I bet you all I have you'll end up trying the baked beans one. Because you're a little psycho-masochism and you know it (otherwise why would you be in the world of dating). Following the amusement park methaphor, I innevitably have to tell you to be careful with the number of shots you down or you'll end up experiencing a proper roller coaster in your stomach. If you're lucky, your new Scouse prince will be sober enough to pick up the pieces of your shattered dreams of having a hangover-free Sunday from the ground.

MOJO

Next time I'll bring a helmet 

A personal favourite, Mojo is the place to express yourself as the closeted rockstar that you are. I'm just warning you in case this is a turn off for you, but this boy is gonna have you dancing on the tables, which is as fun and as dangerous as it sounds. You may try to repress yourself but the gin tonics and their tune after tune policy are gonna convince you that you're the next Pete Doherty at least until the spell is momentarily broken by them playing a Red Hot Chilli Peppers song. In the meantime, don't let yourself be fooled by this new boy you're holding hands with: he may look like a badman, but loves his nan to death. And please be careful not to knock him down while you reach for one of his slender pale legs while he dances on the table only because you need something to hug while crying to "Dreaming of You" by The Coral.

BUMPER

meow

It's called Bumper because you'll bump into everyone you've ever snogged since 1973 there. But this phenomenon has an explanation: after 3 or 4 in the morning, when Seel Street starts to die down and the weakest have left in a cab, everyone you know (including yourself) will start walking uphill on a massive, disorganised horde of zombies. The moment of going to Bumper is a moment of communion between Liverpudlians, and on your way to the pub you'll pass by numberless groups of people your age saying "Bumper?" and nodding to each other with a lost gaze on their eyes.

But don't worry, even though you all look like a huge mob of okies walking to California during the Great Depression, once you step into the club, you'll dance again as if your feet were not killing you anymore. If it's a Friday, the lady at the door will paint some cat whiskers on your cheeks, but you'll be so smashed by then that you won't ever question why. If he takes you here he's a survivor, and a strong man.

HE TAKES YOU TO ALL OF THEM

...and buys you some cheesy chips at 6 in the morning after everything closes. Well, get his ass to the bombed-out church and marry him because he's the one.

<3

You owe me an explanation

The year is 1969, the place is Paris. The sun is shining, Serge Gainsbourg is chirping and fellow Spanish troublemaker Salvador Dalí walks his anteater on the street.

Mediterranean sassiness right there lad

So, this is standard. Standard because Dalí happens to be a widely known and praised artist, an icon of our almighty popular culture, and probably the best of the surrealists or, at least, the most daring one. It is standard because he's dead, his works finite, and everything has fallen into place once all the chapters of his life have been written.

Now, my very respectable reader, please take my hand. The year is 2016. The place is Liverpool. I'm wearing a lightning bolt on my face because David Bowie has passed away. I'm making my way to Seel Street when I'm interrupted by a passerby, who looks at me mockingly and ironically asks me about my Bowie tribute, not knowing who he was. He's got a strong Spanish accent and somehow he seems surprised by me detecting it. I could easily be rude to him but the pure and liberating truth is that I don't even care he walks this earth. Because he has his own story as I got mine. However, he makes me reflect on something: I have always been forced to explain myself, as a woman, as an artist and also in my personal life.

Made of sunshine and olive oil: your narrator

I need to explain myself constantly, surprisingly not only to every breathing man who happens to be around me, but also to other women, or even to friends. I need to give detailed explanations about the way I dress (outrageous I know), my working life (are you still a penniless artist?), and what happened to that boy I used to date (I buried him at the patio in Heebies). In my hours of weakness I, as we all have, shared some details about my sorrows with those I trust, and to my surprise in some cases what I found was people lecturing me about how to live my life, how to be a woman, how to be young. I have been told loads of things: to not to talk to certain people, to do this and that, to restrain from having sex, (ha nice try). And I have been patronised in a way that not even my parents - who can technically patronise me as they created the mess whom evolved to be me today - have, with some cases of people getting angry over me not following their advice. These makes me believe that their questions are not honest attempts at knowing if I'm okay, but attempts at trying to shape my life to their idea of how life should be lived.

Now, as any straight woman born in the 90s who indulges in wine, The Libertines and 19th literature, I have dated some blue-eyed English local rockstars at some point in my life. These creatures, who are common in the mythology of my life, are in some cases quite contradictory, but they have the right and the general praise to be so. Their love life is rarely discussed, their artistry vaguely criticised: they are allowed to find themselves as artists and also as men. To make mistakes. (Like dating me)

We've all been there

I am not allowed to do any of this, to explore, to live on my own terms. And I will never understand why. I get funny looks from fellow female poets who then write about the always crowd-pleasing "embrace yourself" mantra, I get shamed by friends for who I choose to be with even though I couldn't care less if they were dating a stuffed animal as long as they are happy, I have to laugh it off when someone feels entitled to comment on my body. And I will never understand that, and I hope I'll die without understanding it, because I don't care.

I know who I am.

I know what I do what I do, and I know its meaning.

I know I'm not hurting anybody because, on my trips to my artistic or personal edge, I always travel on my own.

I cannot imagine Dalí explaining to the Parisian crowds why he was doing what he was doing. There's no explanation, he doesn't owe you one, and I don't either. If you see me screaming the lyrics to Dreaming of You at a table in Mojo, grabbing coffee at Bold Street with a cigarette holder in my mouth, posting silly things on facebook, wearing some bunny ears at a poetry event, this is all you need to know: 

that I am a poet, which means that I'm in love with life 

that I'm trying to create a story, which means that I am alive

that we all have our stories, so if someone's moves are a mystery to you, don't take it personally,

that you should live life the best you can, but don't be hard on yourself if you fail,

that if you approach me and are nice to me I'll respect you and support you as a fellow artist, whatever ways you choose to express yourself.

So, anyway, how long has it been since you last walked your anteater?