Atypical Tuesday

Sometimes life can get a little too comfortably routine and pedestrian.  That is where teenagers come in very handy.  In fact, there's no doubt they were invented to kick routine firmly in the pants and challenge the status quo.

And so it was that last Tuesday evening, we found ourselves pootling down the motorway with two teens occupying the back seats, destined for Bristol.  The purpose of their visit was to see underground American art-rock music artist Yves Tumor.  Ours was principally to operate as a taxi service (the train was just too pricey and unreliable), but we love an excuse to visit Bristol.

Using the fantastic parking app Just Park, we parked in a quiet residential street not far from Temple Meads train station - which would have cost us £19.50 - for just over £7.00.  

Relying on Google Maps, we took the most direct route to find the music venue, The Marble Factory.  The most direct route it may have been, but it was patchily lit and at times felt as though we had strayed onto a film set created for a "gritty, urban" brief.

City at night...

The temperature was hovering around zero and the moon was bright.  After photographing this crane, I noticed that a lens flare had created a second moon.  Surreal huh?  A happy mistake.

We had the briefest of encounters with the impressive Victorian Temple Meads train station where we grabbed an on-the-go snack and drink before parting company with the gig-goers.

As is par for the course for us, we soon got lost.  It turns out that not all city centre sign posts do in fact lead into the city centre.  I stopped to do up my laces and was asked by a couple of drunks if I was OK.  I think they assumed I was feeling nauseous.  At this point we had probably walked the best part of three miles and hunger was getting the better of me.  We asked a friendly looking passer by for directions.  She suggested the King Street and as she was heading that way for a Clairvoyant evening, we joined her for the last part of her walk, taking a short cut through a dimly lit car park.  Finally, we reached King Street and realised that we had taken an elaborate detour to reach this now familiar destination.

King Street is a vibrant, pedestrianised street lined with a choice of eclectic bars and restaurants with al fresco wooden bench seating.  Even in the late November chill, many students opted to sit outside.

We parted company from our good samaritan tour guide and headed inside an inviting looking Pizzeria not far from the Old Vic Theatre.

Inside, the walls were decorated with decades of Old Vic theatre posters.  There was pizza by the slice and a good selection of beers by the local Left Handed Giant Brewery.  I opted for the vegan pizzas and honestly thought there had been a mix up with the ingredients; the cheese was that good.

As it was a week night, we were joined by only four other Tuesday night revellers during our visit.  The staff were laid back and friendly and the ambience was relaxed.

I loved what they had done with the place!

Hunger sated, we  reluctantly left the warmth of our cosy corner and decided to head back towards Temple Bar.  The temperature was now plummeting and we wanted to be as close to the Marble Factory as possible when Mr Tumor had finished his set.

By now, some of the eateries close the King Street were closing for business.

On any other given week, we may have been busy doing nothing, watching some trash TV, surfing the internet or answering emails.  Bristol's around a 90 minute drive from us, so it's not the obvious destination for a night out, but it made a refreshing change and I wish we'd had longer.

Check out this handsome pub!

In no time at all, we found ourselves back in the Temple Quay area and I took the opportunity to capture some of the lights and sights that caught my eye...

...like the impressive Valentine Bridge which snakes across Bristol's floating harbour in a newly developed mix use area behind Temple Meads station.  The bridge caused some controversy when barriers were erected to encourage cyclists to dismount before the authorities relented after complaints were lodged.

Cyclists are everywhere in Bristol.

A rear window moment.

Feeling the chill again, we headed into the promising sounding but totally soulless Wetherspoons pub The Knights Templar for a caffeine pick-me-up and carpet shot.

My friend, Vix recently enlightened me through her blog (Vintage Vixen: Black Country Tales - Viva Bilstonia! (vintagevixon.blogspot.com) that each of the carpets of Wetherspoons pubs are bespoke - unique to the building or locality and handmade, valued at around £30,000 apiece! This one's for you Vix!  I think it was probably the best part of this pub. 

I also found this interesting reading material courtesy of the Wetherspoons Magazine.  This article, penned by Nik Antona, the Chairman of the Campaign for Real Ale (CAMRA), referenced the illegal demolition of our local landmark The Crooked House.  Investigations continue, arrests have been made and the campaign continues, in case you're wondering.  

At around 10.30, we took a short stroll to the Marble Factory, a move we timed perfectly to coincide with the end of the gig and there ended a tremendous and atypical Tuesday evening.  Thanks Bristol!

On the return journey, the teens took over the music and I have to say, Yves Tumor's not at all bad!

I'll leave you with a taste.

Yves Tumor - Fear Evil Like Fire (Official Audio) - YouTube

A Walk on the Wild Side

After exploring the enchanting Badger Dingle last weekend, we found ourselves in the thick of it on Saturday night, having been the nominated taxi service to two teens heading to their first gig in Birmingham's industrial heartland Digbeth, now slowly but surely shaking off its dark and dangerous reputation.

I love this part of Birmingham.  Currently the high street is a building site whilst tram lines are laid, as plans for the West Midlands Metro extension continue at pace.  As easy on the eye as Birmingham's Bull Ring and surrounding area is, something of the character of the city is always stripped away when restaurant franchises and chain stores dominate.  As of now, Digbeth is walking that tightrope between darkly creative underbelly - still wearing its industrial heart on its sleeve - and relentless progress and gentrification.  I know for some, gentrification of the area can't come soon enough, but for now, I'm enjoying experiencing the palpable excitement that a simple walk around Digbeth offers.  

I've visited a few times in recent years, most memorably at the first (and to date, only) Peaky Blinders Festival in 2019.

In September of that year, I took my partner in crime and fellow Peaky obsessive Vix to this fully immersive festival where little set dressing was required.  Naturally we stopped for a pint of Guinness in one of the Victorian Irish pubs Digbeth is famed for.  In retrospect we should have opted for Thomas Shelby's favoured Irish whisky, but we needed to have our wits about us, as became clear upon entry.

Firstly I was ordered to leave behind my camera (something which outraged me at the time as there was nothing on the festival website to suggest cameras were not welcome when smart phones were!)  This necessitated a detour to the Bull Ring where we managed to find a safe for me to deposit the offending item.  

Smart phone camera on standby, our first experiences on entry were somewhat surreal.  I was taken to one side by a gypsy, who took a keen interest in my jewellery whilst trying to relieve me of cash in some kind of gambling game (memory fails me here).  

We were also soon approached by a BBC director, keen to get the two of us on camera to discuss all things Peaky.  I wonder whatever happened to that footage?  We also chatted (and shared chips) with celebrity Brummie chef, Glynn Purnell, although neither of us recognised him at the time.

There were showgirls and Burlesque performers...

We drank beer, watched bands (including Slaves and Anna Calvi)

...hung out with Thomas and Alfie Solomons...

...received series secrets ahead of transmission from writer and creator Stephen Knight, pictured here from behind (centre)...

...admired the architecture and graffiti art...

...observed illegal boxing...

...supported the Suffragette Movement

and generally had the most amazing day.  Little did we know that Covid would emerge at the end of that year.

So, back to Saturday night.  We started out in Digbeth, but its dimly lit streets, shady characters and broken glass seemed less inviting before the nightlife had really come alive...

...so we headed on foot into the centre of everything...

where no one had apparently heard of Covid.  The bars and restaurants were full to bursting with no masks in evidence.  By 7.30 pm (still some way off witching hour), people were dancing and singing in the streets.  Talk about the roaring twenties!

Whilst photographing this juggler (more on him shortly)... 

...a man handed me an artificial rose, immediately followed by a small laminated note asking for financial support for his family. I explained that I wasn't carrying any cash and he promptly took the rose from my fingers and moved on. 

Back to the juggler.  I'm not sure if it was part of his act or not, but every so often, he would drop one of his batons, which landed with a clatter near to his peacefully sleeping (and healthy looking dog).  This would immediately send the dog off into a spiralling rage and he would charge at the nearest pedestrian.  Clearly, whilst the baton had dropped, the penny hadn't for this poor sleep deprived canine, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the real culprit was his owner.

Birmingham's famous Bullring

Tramlines

The reflective beauty of the metal clad New Street Station

Heading back towards Digbeth, we spotted this establishment.  After the fiasco in the House of Commons this week with our PM being forced to (yet again) apologise for parties in number 10, this is definitely a sign of the times; a load of old waffle and a PM on shaky ground.

Digbeth was by this time, coming to life.  There was ground shaking music and packed pubs and beer gardens.  We were happy to observe Birmingham's wildlife from a safe distance.  Incidentally and disappointingly, the teens reported back that no checks were carried out relating to the required negative lateral flow tests or proof of vaccination status upon entry to the concert.  I can only guess that this is typical.

How cool was this guy's patchwork outfit?!

The final series of Peaky Blinders airs this month, ahead of a planned film to bring this chapter in the life of the Shelby family to a close.  I was lucky enough to put in a stint as Filming Assistant on season 6 last Spring before restrictions had been lifted.  Miraculously, for once, the press failed to get wind of the fact that filming was taking place at the Black Country Museum, so it was allowed to proceed uninhibited and I feel so lucky to have witnessed these iconic actors walking the cobbles and filming key scenes.  But no spoilers here.

After a bleak and stormy weekend, the sun appeared on Monday, along with a teaser of spring-like weather.  The balmy temperatures on Monday were perfectly timed and enabled me to try out my new wool jacket.  I say new, but of course, it's vintage.  I've been searching off an on for a Harris Tweed jacket after visiting the Hebrides several years ago, but they command eye watering prices and ebay and our local charity shops have failed to turn up trumps with anything close in my size.  Naturally, all it took was a passing comment on Vix's blog and hey presto! one turned up in a Walsall charity shop (those folks have taste).  Vix sent me the photos and my jaw hit the floor.  

It was the exact size and shade I was looking for; a 1970s beauty with football buttons, ticket pocket, elbow patches and sewn up pockets.  A perfectly preserved piece of  vintage loveliness, pictured here teamed with a Breton top, second hand Zara jeans, Clarks boots, Turtle Doves recycled cashmere wrist warmers and second hand leopard print, bead-trimmed Anokhi scarf.

Sun and fashion frivolity however, provided little distraction from the very sad news we received on Sunday evening, that our friend Sandra had passed away.  Whilst not unexpected, it came a little sooner than we had anticipated.  Sandra, although originally from Durham, had made a life with her husband and three children in her spiritual home, a remote and stunning corner of County Donegal.  Consequently, we saw each other once in a blue moon, but those occasions were always filled with laughter.  We were still regularly in touch, chatting on the phone or virtually - sometimes during one of her many hospital stays - until late December, when Sandra said she would raise a glass to me.  In these circumstances, the word "bravery" is often used.  Sandra really did face her illness with a boldness and bravery I can't even begin to imagine being able to muster.  She was clever, sassy and funny, one of my favourite people and I will miss her dreadfully.  

So tonight, on the evening of her wake, I will raise a glass of whisky - Irish of course - to Sandra.