Sunday, February 06, 2005
Birmingham Bop
Saturday I took my first steps to the Midlands in five months, off to see fiends and enjoy the culinary delights of Big Wok.
The train that took me to the land of Noddy Holder and Nick Owen was on time and reliable as ever, arriving only twenty minutes late and I was promptly whisked away to Great Barr in my friends new, MOT passing car (Great Bar sadly, has no great bars, but legend has it Boy George was once beaten up outside The Scott Arms).
It was great seeing my Brummie friends again, even if their accent is somewhat strange (But, better than that of the Dudley Folk), but that's easily forgotten when your reunion is celebrated by drinking Tea and watching Monk (I used to love the antics of Monk, however, now I lean more to Coloumbo, his approach of telling you who the murderer is at the beginning and then basing the episode on how the crime is solved is simply genius, in my humble opinion). Talk in this time also drifted to a friends ex who lived around the corner who is an ardent anti-Nick Cave man, I suggested going around to shoe him in, but I think the Tea just calmed my nerves, and besides, how could I turn my back on Mr. Monk?
After a great time was had by all (And I went in the only pub I've ever known to not serve pints, The Green Room on Hurst Street) and my final trial of the day was getting home as work decided I was in on Sunday morning. Half ten, shouldn't be too hard getting back, I've done it much later than that, should be easy... What's that Mr. Ticketman? No train going there? Not even swapping in Stafford or Crewe? Somehow I don't believe you and I'll make my own route! Aboard the Manchester bound train I'm told I can get back by swapping in Manchester, rather smug with myself I stay on the train to its destination where I'm told the rail replacement coach, and it isn't till 1:40 AM, two hours away.
I am a hardened traveler however, I can do this, I'm a warrior on the icy frontier, the vagabond drifting from place to place and used to waiting, waiting patiently for the next adventure. As this delusion ended I just sat and read a book I'd been given in Birmingham, "Confessions of a Heavy Metal Addict: Hell Bent for Leather", and I gotta say, its fantastic (But more on that another time) and drank Tea, taking the occasional break to go take in the beauty of Manchester.
The coach is filled with strange Scoucers. A man mentioned to me several times he's just had a great night in Jillys Rockworld (I was wearing PVC, he was wearing leather, the bond was there before we even spoke) and he mentioned various points his mother had died in the week and as a result his Sky was being disconnected. There was also this guy who was the spitting image of a friends gay Irish housemate, and it turns out, he was gay and Irish to! And had a stutter! It was like sitting next to a stammering Graham Norton, only this guy wasn't a twat. Some other guy in his late 60's also joined out late night retinue, he went out in Manchester every weekend, he didn't let age stop him being hardcore, a warrior on the icy frontier, a vagabond drifting place to place...
It was a long day, and for the fine company, the resulting fine book and a familiar acceptance from the rail service, it felt better than ever to be back in The North, the fine land that it is...
The train that took me to the land of Noddy Holder and Nick Owen was on time and reliable as ever, arriving only twenty minutes late and I was promptly whisked away to Great Barr in my friends new, MOT passing car (Great Bar sadly, has no great bars, but legend has it Boy George was once beaten up outside The Scott Arms).
It was great seeing my Brummie friends again, even if their accent is somewhat strange (But, better than that of the Dudley Folk), but that's easily forgotten when your reunion is celebrated by drinking Tea and watching Monk (I used to love the antics of Monk, however, now I lean more to Coloumbo, his approach of telling you who the murderer is at the beginning and then basing the episode on how the crime is solved is simply genius, in my humble opinion). Talk in this time also drifted to a friends ex who lived around the corner who is an ardent anti-Nick Cave man, I suggested going around to shoe him in, but I think the Tea just calmed my nerves, and besides, how could I turn my back on Mr. Monk?
After a great time was had by all (And I went in the only pub I've ever known to not serve pints, The Green Room on Hurst Street) and my final trial of the day was getting home as work decided I was in on Sunday morning. Half ten, shouldn't be too hard getting back, I've done it much later than that, should be easy... What's that Mr. Ticketman? No train going there? Not even swapping in Stafford or Crewe? Somehow I don't believe you and I'll make my own route! Aboard the Manchester bound train I'm told I can get back by swapping in Manchester, rather smug with myself I stay on the train to its destination where I'm told the rail replacement coach, and it isn't till 1:40 AM, two hours away.
I am a hardened traveler however, I can do this, I'm a warrior on the icy frontier, the vagabond drifting from place to place and used to waiting, waiting patiently for the next adventure. As this delusion ended I just sat and read a book I'd been given in Birmingham, "Confessions of a Heavy Metal Addict: Hell Bent for Leather", and I gotta say, its fantastic (But more on that another time) and drank Tea, taking the occasional break to go take in the beauty of Manchester.
The coach is filled with strange Scoucers. A man mentioned to me several times he's just had a great night in Jillys Rockworld (I was wearing PVC, he was wearing leather, the bond was there before we even spoke) and he mentioned various points his mother had died in the week and as a result his Sky was being disconnected. There was also this guy who was the spitting image of a friends gay Irish housemate, and it turns out, he was gay and Irish to! And had a stutter! It was like sitting next to a stammering Graham Norton, only this guy wasn't a twat. Some other guy in his late 60's also joined out late night retinue, he went out in Manchester every weekend, he didn't let age stop him being hardcore, a warrior on the icy frontier, a vagabond drifting place to place...
It was a long day, and for the fine company, the resulting fine book and a familiar acceptance from the rail service, it felt better than ever to be back in The North, the fine land that it is...
