Still Standing: The Savage Years
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Lilian Maeve Veronica Savage, international sex kitten, was born on the steps of The Legs of Man public house, Lime Street, Liverpool on a policeman’s overcoat. Her mother, the lady wrestler Hell Cat Savage, had no such luxuries as gas and air. She just bit down on the policeman’s torch and recovered afterwards at the bar with a large pale ale. Paul O'Grady shot to fame via his brilliant comic creation, the blonde bombsite Lily Savage. In the first two parts of his bestselling and critically acclaimed autobiography, Paul took us through his childhood in Birkenhead to his first, teetering steps on stage. Now, in Still Standing, for the first time, he brings us the no-holds-barred true story of Lily and the rocky road to stardom. Paul pulls no punches in this tale of bar room brawls, drunken escapades, and liaisons dangereuses. And that’s just backstage at the Panto. Along the way, we stop off at some extremely dodgy pubs and clubs, and meet a collection of exotic characters who made the world a louder, brighter, and more hilarious place. From the chaos of the Toxteth riots and the Vauxhall Tavern police raid, to the mystery of who shot Skippy and the great chip pan fire of Victoria Mansions, Paul emerges shaken but not stirred. Still Standing will make you laugh and make you cry. Some of the stories might even make your hair curl. But it stands as a glorious tribute to absent friends and to a world which has now all but vanished.
bathroom as well,’ it had never really been theirs. It was a rented property. At the letting agents in Liverpool I applied to take over the tenancy. ‘Had your mother lived there long?’ the understanding young lad behind the counter asked. ‘Over forty years,’ I replied flatly. I left with a new rent book. I was now the sole tenant of Holly Grove. The landlord offered to sell it to me for �9,000, a three-bedroom house with a garden and fabulous views over the Mersey. It was badly in need of
seen so many friends in this emaciated condition down the years that I’d come to accept it, and we sat and chatted together openly and honestly for a short while as I drank my tea and we shared a ciggy. She was still interested to hear what was going on and I filled her in on the Street of Dreams saga. ‘I wouldn’t have anything to do with it,’ she said in between coughing fits, filling the oxygen mask with smoke in the process. ‘D’you want me to do a story on it? Ring me after Christmas with all
appreciative and generous audiences that we’d had for a while. They went mad, particularly for the Salvation Army routine, and generously plied us with bottles of the appro priately named Elephant Beer as it was so strong it was probably capable of stunning your average beer-swilling pachyderm. The redhead turned out to be called Lisa. She worked in the Prince Arthur next door and was the original good-time girl, making Keith Moon look like Ann Widdecombe. Lisa was in her late thirties, an
jolly married couples and their progeny swapping suburbia for Greece for a fortnight. One of the men, fat and over forty and wearing a pair of swimming trunks that could only have belonged to a six-year-old they were so pornographically tight, greeted Jo like a long-lost daughter and she in return giggled gratefully. Here was a satisfied customer she could present to the Grinch, now sitting on his suitcase unsuitably attired for the sunny Greek weather in jumper and jeans, and sulking like a brat
mate.’ It seemed odd referring to Murphy as a mate but then I was hardly going to say he was my lover, was I? Not that I would’ve anyway. ‘Lover’ is too Lady Chatterley for me, ‘boyfriend’ is juvenile and ‘partner’ sounds far too formal, and as for introducing the paramour as ‘This is me friend’ … well. ‘I hope you’re not looking for something to eat,’ she said, munching something, ‘cos I’ve got nothing in.’ ‘Don’t worry about food, see you in an hour.’ Before we checked out I rang Vera to