Saturday afternoon. I’m on a quest to discover my inner northerner, sitting in a bar in Liverpool’s Lark Lane, nursing a pint of Peroni and cheering on Leeds against Newcastle on Sky Sports. Yes, it’s football, not my usual love, rugby. I have whiplash, the telly is so high up the wall. No one else is watching because the Big Game is today: Liverpool vs Arsenal.

I’m here to investigate the possibility of moving to Liverpool, where rents are much cheaper than down south and you don’t have to take out a second mortgage to buy a round.

My experience of Liverpudlians is limited, though. Th elate and truly great Paul O’Grady was a friend, as was Cilla Black, who kindly let me stay over at her place in Spain following one of her drinks parties. We talked long into the night and she was funny, insightful, kind and generous. I slept in what she called “Cliff Richard’s bed” – and that’s something I never thought would ever happen.

I have a number of Liverpudlian friends, and I recently made some new ones in Edinburgh as I investigated more about my potential move (I’m meeting them later to watch the Liverpool game – how northern am I, eh?! In fact, I’m feeling so northern, I’m a quaver away from breaking into Yellow Submarine).

Liverpudlians are very funny. I’ve never met one who isn’t – unlike the Irish, who only think they are. I could give up working if I had a pound for every time I’ve sat with an Irishman in a bar and been subjected to the threat “You’re gonna laugh at this . . . ” Try me, mate. At your peril. I ain’t.

Apart from one miserable year spent at Lancaster University for my MA in Creative Writing 1983-4, I’ve spent little time in the north of England. Too many hours standing on a platform at Crewe station, waiting for yet another delayed train heading south, put me off. At that time, Lancaster reportedly had a high suicide rate for students throwing themselves off “the tower”. I had little difficulty in understanding why.

Now, here’s the odd thing. My brother and I, since childhood, have always supported Leeds United. Nigel says it was because we didn’t like Manchester United, and so when Leeds beat them, we took sides. For me, I think it had more to do with the fact that they played in white and it appealed to my OCD about cleanliness.

I used to collect football cards from cereal packets, and superstars Allan Clarke and Eddie Gray were ones to cherish. Despite my switching allegiance from football to rugby over the years, I continued to follow “my” team and rejoiced at their recent promotion to the Premiership.

I once met Eddie Gray at a bar in Spain and shared with him my memories of the golden years at the club under the great Don Revie. I waxed lyrical about Leeds beating Arsenal 1-0 in 1972 to win the FA Cup. On and on and on. I thought Eddie sounded impressed.

And I’m sure he would have been, had I actually been talking to Eddie Gray. I discovered soon after that the victim of my diatribe was the sports commentator and ex-footballer who had never played for Leeds, Andy Gray.

When I saw him the next night, I apologised and asked why he hadn’t corrected me. He said he’d really enjoyed our chat. What a gentleman.

So, Liverpool, a place I fleetingly visited when I was representing Wales in the national public speaking final when I was 17 (sixth, since you ask. Complete fix). With my friend Mark just having just moved back to his home city from New York, where we met, I’ve been finding out more about it from him. And so, on Thursday, at short notice, I decided to visit, booked into Citadines in the city centre, and leapt on a train.

Well, a sardine tin, to be precise. At Cardiff, I got on the train to Manchester, where I had to change, and immediately got off it. Standing room only. And no refreshments.

The next one involved changing at Chester, but still no refreshments until well past Cwmbran because lack of reception meant that the trolley’s payment machine wouldn’t work until there was. Dear lord. Welsh transport.

Finally. Liverpool Lime Street.

Join me for Part Two for the verdict.