Do Geordies really wear only T-shirts in January? Are all Brummies in heavy metal bands? Have a majority of Glaswegians had three heart attacks by their 50th birthday? All these and other questions will be answered. Or if not answered, at least serve as the basis for some extremely cheap jokes in this, the first of an occasional series in which I attempt to prove or disprove the received wisdom about a place in a mere 500 words and based on one shockingly brief visit.

Let’s start in Liverpool. I was there on Monday this week. I did the Tate, the Maritime Museum and the Cavern Club Wall of Fame, plus four bars, three restaurants and two pubs, which I find quite impressive. I had conversations, some fleeting, some extended, with close on a score of locals. No one, I have to report, said anything especially witty, nor claimed to be Ringo Starr’s cousin. Nor did I once hear the words come ’ead, soft lad, the bizzies, calm down or you’ll never walk alone.

What’s more, I didn’t see a single man wearing a perm or a shellsuit, no attempt was made to steal my belongings and no one sought to introduce sudden extreme violence into our encounter. I would have to say, indeed, that Liverpudlians are better dressed, friendlier and less threatening than many of their compatriots elsewhere, certainly those in London, where I live, or Hull, where I’m from. Also, after decades on the economic slide, Liverpool is coming good again. Looking back at the city skyline from Albert Dock, I counted 24 cranes. Investment is pouring in.

On the face of it, then, a poor start for the caricature of life by the Mersey.

But hold on, what’s this? Yes, I’ve only just arrived at Lime Street station and already I overhear a rancorous dispute about football. An Everton shirt and a Liverpool shirt are arguing over their teams respective preseason training routines. The attitude of the Everton fan, at least, verges on self-pity. An hour later, close to Pier Head, I spot a dangerously sentimentalised statue of Billy Fury, complete with mawkish floral tribute tied to his leg. A man goes by whistling the theme to The Liver Birds. He sports a Graeme Souness-style moustache. A businessman tells me local politics are still marked by vicious internecine feuding.

Things are looking up for the received wisdom on Scouseland.

And then, clambering into a cab, the driver (shaved head, tattoos) urges me to visit Richard Wilson’s recently opened Turning the Place over in the city centre. “Into your arts, are you?” he asks earnestly. “There’s this mad sculpture you’ve just got to see.”

He then moves on to painting, and then poetry, and then, yes, he says he used to be in a band, boosting, I think, a disappointing 40 per cent accuracy ratio for the city’s stereotype to a much more respectable 60.

Next week: does the entire population of Surrey play golf?

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