they were also , largely , large , and awash with cynical crabbiness and the barnacles of the years , but ... the smell of cheap overcoats in the rain , which always had a tint and taste of soot in it , and your father , or maybe your grandfather , lifting you on to his shoulders , and there you were , above all those cheap hats and scarves , and you could feel the warmth of the shove , watch its tides , feel its heartbeat , and then , certainly , a pie would be handed up , or maybe half a pie if times were hard , and if they were really bad it might be a handful of fat greasy pease which were to be eaten one at a time to make them last longer ... or when times were flush there might be a real treat , like a hot dog you did n't have to share , or a plate of scouse , with yellow fat beading on the top and lumps of gristle you could chew at on the way home , meat which now you would not give to a dog but which was sacred lotus eaten with the gods , in the rain , in the cheering , in the bosom of the shove ...