The city of Liverpool has produced: Alan Bleasdale; the Grand National; Ricky Tomlinson; Willy Russell; some of the most beautiful architecture in England; The Beatles; Leonard Rossiter; and the most successful British football team of all time (clue: it's not Everton).

For these fair efforts, it has received back in kind: the social policies of Margaret Thatcher; lame jokes about car crime; Harry Enfield. Hardly a fair deal, is it?

This is a beautiful city. It hasn't been blessed with a beautiful image. Let's be honest, if most folk were planning a short break in Britain, they'd be more inclined to book a weekend in Maidenhead than book one here.

Their loss. I'm staying on the top floor of a hotel on the banks of the Mersey, right by the Royal Liver Assurance building and its famous Liver Bird. I'm told that the clock face just under the bird's arse is the biggest in Britain, and when I look out of my window, it doubles as my personal alarm. Somehow this makes me feel more important than I usually do on waking up in the morning, and there's a spring in my step as I suck down a lungful of sea air and jauntily strut along the banks of the river towards the Albert Dock.

The dock is a lovely but strange place. Many British TV viewers will remember the Richard and Judy years, and indeed Fred the weatherman's map still floats around in the dock. If you squint hard enough, you can almost see the understandably flaccid incident when a streaker bounced all over it on live TV replayed before you.

There are many trendy bars and restaurants. Some are said to contain professional footballers on a regular basis, yet they look tasteful. Of more dubious quality are the many souvenir shops lining the dock, stocked to the brim with chinaware, all apparently made by a company with a contractual obligation to etch one or more of the following words onto them: submarine; penny; strawberry; cavern; abbey.

Slightly further up the taste scale, but only slightly, is the Beatles museum. Among the musical curios (such as the extremely white piano upon which Imagine was composed, now owned by the extremely bronze "Mr G Michael") is an accurate representation of a late 1950s house. It's full of superb period touches, such as a newspaper featuring suspiciously late-90s colour photographs of suspiciously late-90s professional footballers. At least there's no sign of a digital TV box or an iMac. Still, you have to do something Beatles-y, don't you? (And, to be fair, the museum's re-creation of The Cavern is better than the real thing. Which itself is a re-creation of the real thing, but that's another story.)

Then there's the Museum of Liverpool Life, where you can get someone to take a photograph of you as you stand gaping in the manner of an awestruck child on a bit of the old Kop terrace (I'm saying nothing) or act in a videotaped scene with Jimmy and Sinbad from Brookside (better than it sounds).

For less simple folk than me, the Tate, like Miles Davis, is on the corner. Unfortunately I'm no art critic, and I'm not about to start for you now. Sorry. Can't. All I can say is that the two main exhibitions - Emotional Ties, an exploration of the lives of friends, families and lovers by artists ranging from Munch to Gilbert and George; and the work of the sculptor William Tucker who made brash modern statements with plastic from the 1960s right up until the 1980s when, inexplicably, he decided to eschew modernity completely and faff about with bits of wood - are right good.

(Special mention, though, to the Focus Room, which focused - well, it did - on 1920s St Ives artist Alfred Wallis. His total disregard for perspective is amazing enough, but the autobiographical details are something else. Wallis on art: "Their have been a lot of paintins spoiled by putin collers where they do not belong." Wallis on his late wife, whose spirit took to visiting him in the night: "I had the misfortune to marry that black-hearted bitch.")

On to the Duck tour. The Duck is a big yellow amphibian truck which splutters around the streets of the city taking in the sights, then bombs down a slope into the dock and sails up the river. By rights, this sort of thing should only be enjoyed by the smallest of children, but forget the cynicism and jump aboard; the tour is superb, and very relaxing. Come on, feet up.

Later, fully rested, I take a wander around the city with Anne, a blue coat guide. On my own, I would have walked around and noticed a few bars and shops; with Anne alongside, my eyes are opened to Liverpool's history. Thanks to its wealth in the days of shipping and insurance, the city can boast the most consistently beautiful architecture in the county (and when did you last look?). But it doesn't just rely on the grand to take away the breath.

For every building like the exquisite City Hall or the cathedral, there is a Jacaranda, with cellar painted by a youthful John Lennon and Stuart Sutcliffe in exchange for possibly euphemistic "free coffee"; a modern landmark like Cream, the famous nightclub; or a side door completely covered in the large but polite notice: "Stop pissing in our fire exit please."

There is also a bronze Eleanor Rigby sitting in the town centre, a tribute to you-know-who. It was donated to the city by, of all people, intensely annoying singing cockney shortarse Tommy "Little White Bull" Steele. Why? I have no idea.

On to Anfield. Liverpool take on Dynamo Kiev in the Champions League, the bastard child of a competition that used to be called the European Cup. Before the game, the crowd - just the crowd, mind, without one note of accompaniment from a booming PA system - sing You'll Never Walk Alone, strumming the hairs on the back of my neck as they do so. Liverpool succeed in totally ruining the effect by playing extremely poorly. But, as the sign says, this is Anfield, and I'm not going to let anything spoil it. Thank God they scrape a win.

Back to the hotel, back to sleep. In the morning, the clock. I then cheerily meet up with four Irishmen and, in a potentially dangerous development, we are all taken on an informative tour round Cain's brewery.

I wish I could say details are sketchy. But sadly there's not time to appreciate enough of their fortifying Christmas Ale product (which, if you can get hold of it, you must buy; it's a meal in itself, which should save anyone washing up on December 25). My train awaits, and I've got to leave the city. Hands are shaken, farewells are bade, and depression as a way of life is embraced.

This is a beautiful city. I want to go back. Go yourself and help the world right the wrongs of cultural terrorists Thatcher and Enfield.

One thing, though: unless you actually want to get to the other side, don't bother with the famous ferry. It is bloody rubbish.