The word on the street told me, "Wellington Rooms is open; you have to do the Wellington Rooms." @anidiotexplores had been inside already; he had been lucky.
Me?.. this place was bloody cursed. Three times I had tried and it had always been sealed. The back door that was supposed to be open now had three locks on it, and not those rusty types ether. Someone was resealing this one regularly.
Built in 1815, I have seen older buildings but the décor you have to admit is quite grand. It reminded me of a small castle, and I half expected some guards to poke their heads up and aim a shot with an old musket.
…’when the high society and aristocrats of Liverpool used to frequent Wellington Rooms, well you can see the date, it was long ago’… - Source
Wellington Rooms has its own Wikipedia page and used to host balls for the city's high society, before becoming an Irish bar.
There's no shortage of Irish people in Liverpool, you just catch the ferry, fall asleep for six hours and you're in England. Since 1997 it’s been doing nothing, besides growing more weeds around its exterior.
…'the aforementioned back door; predictably locked and likely to stay that way until someone turns up with a crowbar'…
This time we had some luck as the front left side metal sheeting had been ripped away. Getting through it was fucking awkward and I had to endure the disbelieving stares of several pedestrians who thought me quite insane.
Wellington Rooms are relatively central and in a busy area. Luck was upon us and no pigs drove past during the brief struggle. That could have been awkward.
I felt some relief while walking through the murky cellar; that tin sheeting hadn’t half made a din and I like to be as quiet as possible.
The beer-pumping equipment was still attached, but I was intent on climbing upward. This corridor had to end somewhere.
It looked like I didn't need the big light up here; plenty of windows and holes in the roof were letting the natural stuff through.
Mosaic tiles on the ceiling, with the bar name, lettered. It's unusual.
Yes, it was a bar and an Irish one at that. I have seen better and much worse. This one had no beer, even of the stale type on offer.
Such opulent wall décor! I can imagine the high society male aristocrats prowling this room looking for their next potential shag, all above board of course and done most properly.
The stage would have yielded cheesy acts of comedy or slapstick. It’s not in the best state but still very intact.
What’s up there I wonder? My vertigo prevented me from climbing up and peeking in the ceiling. It was probably full of bird shit and little else.
In the 'John F. Kennedy' bar, there was more than one.
'Wellington Rooms' had been done over many times before I managed to acquire an audience. It was showing.
Should we have jumped on the stuck lift, up and down to see what would happen? It might take us somewhere else, as well as a swift death.
There was little reason to open this, I am English and therefore not eligible for the ‘help’ offered within.
'Wellington Rooms' was colourful but somehow not the spectacle I was expecting. Yes, it was OK, and better than your regular derp but somehow I was feeling underwhelmed.
Everything in here was about the Irish, a lovely set of people in my experience, though my late father hated them collectively. Why, because they were too lucky. Blame those Leprechauns.
It's typical 19th-century décor and I don't mean the sub-standard graffiti.
How they attached this stuff to the walls, I can't tell you. It always strikes me as quite regal whenever I see this style. It's becoming less commonplace these days outside of stately homes.
Lovely chandeliers and not the cheap pound shop variety. They likely survived as they were too high to swing on. This is what some 'explorers' like doing.
You can see that Liverpool lacks any artistic talent, at least if this is an example. 'All You Need is Beer' could well be a reference to a certain Beatles song.
I emerged from the tin sheeting once again making lots of noise and garnering as many stares as when we entered.
It was another mark on the bedpost, with a flavour of slight disappointment.
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