Dessert in the Boot Room

I like surprises and taking risks, but have no real understanding of football and all that sort of stuff.  This is probably a bit stupid of me since I live in Liverpool where behind weed, alcohol and the bookies, ‘footie’ is the local religion.

So, when I was asked to don a complete Everton kit for a meal out, I thought nothing of it. It must be a local custom I surmised.

Even as I entered the grounds of arch rival team Liverpool FC, nothing struck me as in any way wrong.

However, after passing people who tutted, growled and hurled abuse at me, I eventually fell in.  I had been stitched up and was like an overfed wildebeest strolling into a starving into the midst of a starving pack of lions.

I know now that it is wrong to wear the Everton kit in the Liverpool grounds.  However, I was shown up to the 250 seater ‘Boot Room’ Sports Cafe.

On seeing the party I was with, none of which were dressed in the Everton kit, the greeter was extremely friendly, but, casting an eye over those who were with this international celebrity, he made a horrified double take at me, the only person within 2 kilometres wearing Everton’s kit.  He asked us to hold on one sec, and went for a conference with somebody who must have been his boss.  After much discussion, he returned to usher us to a secluded booth far away from the stares of the many other diners.

It was at this point that I decided it might be best to not order anything directly, instead getting my host to order it as part of a list.  Thus, the kitchen and the waiters/waitresses wouldn’t know which food to spit or put the Ex-lax in.  Not that they would ever do such a thing of course, I just said that for dramatic effect, naturally.

So, I ate this very tasty kebab thing, and then picked a dessert.

This is when things went a little, well, theatrical.

Firstly, and none of this is made up, the waitress cleared the table and placed two gigantic sheets of greaseproof paper over it.


She went away.

She returned with my dessert all set up in different dishes on a tray.  On the tray I could see profiteroles, jam doughnuts, marshmallows, fresh strawberries, pineapple chunks, jelly, meringue, ice cream, fruit coulis, chocolate sauce and popping candy.  Perfect.

Then it all went weird.

She leaned over me, and used the chocolate sauce to dribble the letters ‘L F C’ all over the table.


Then she placed bits of fruit coulis lumps in different places and chucked bits of fruit and chips of meringue and all the other bits all over the place.

“Enjoy!” she smiled and walked away.


Apparently, this is perfectly normal for the ‘Ultimate’ dessert at the Boot Room Sports Cafe.  Is it a Liverpool thing?