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A bored looking teenager says something, he’s not really looking at me so doesn’t see my earphones are in. all I see is his lips moving and a hole in his nose where a piercing usually goes.
Realising my rudeness in one smooth movement I tug on the wires and the buds pop out of my ears which I catch in one hand. No I haven’t practised that, shut up.
“Sorry, what?” my apology breaks his reverie and he snaps back into his own head.
“Would you be interested in this DVD we’re offering today for only five pounds?’ he says on reflex. The DVD is terrible rom-com Failure to Launch starring the equine Sarah Jessica Parker and annoyingly likeable Matthew McConaughey, it is the exact opposite of a film I would willingly watch. I’m fairly certain on hell’s television there is a channel that plays that film on loop. Still feeling bad about having my headphones in I bite down my disgust with a “No, thank you” but also try and pack so much human inflection and actual connection into those three words ‘sorry’ I want to say ‘I recognise you ARE a real person and deserve all my attention, look how much we are connecting now’. It comes out weird, like a crazy person.
Once upon a time there was Birmingham: It’s Not Shit. It was a place that reacted against how the local media treated the city, it tried to show the place without polish. People liked it, so they sent in things and to be nice we posted lots of them. But that sort of muddied the waters, and then something happened.
So we’re going for a fresh start.
A Global City with a Local Miscellany
At this point we are Jon Bounds (founder of BiNS) and Jon Hickman, with stuff from Danny Smith.
It’ll come as no surprise that I was a bookish child, I rarely left the house to go out and play and would opt to stay in the massive musty smelling Austin Maxi that my father drove rather than go play in the the sun on whatever day trip my parents would take us on. Evesham or Stourport all enjoyed from the the smeared window of a car built like a tank glanced at by bored eyes while turning the page of whatever comic or book I head stuck my head in. Its why I’m such a good traveller now, I either sleep or read during the boring bits.
So the memories I have of the the little strip of green known locally as the Kala’s I am suspicious of, I never really went outside so why are my memories so strong? So vivid? Are they borrowed from my school-friends’ stories? Squirrelled away in my mind that expects a Wonder Years montage of important childhood memories. Its more likely that the fantasy of being so bookish and anti social are an exaggerated construct to assert my difference and nerdy credentials. Yet, I still don’t know how to ride a bike but can read on almost any transport without feeling ill in the slightest.
The Kala’s has a magical sounding name, and it suits because its a fairy tale sort of place. The name actually comes from the industrial estate it run behind, the bizarrely name Kalamazoo on the Bristol Road where Northfield and Longbridge meet. Its a strip of forest about a football pitch in width that ran parrall to the train lines, a tiny crack of green, a lush hinterzone of my childhood. the grey of the adult world always visable but forgotten trapped between that and the dangers of the railway, we’d all seen the videos but played on them anyway.
Routine crushes me, most of the time I can feel its weight on my chest. When it really takes hold I start getting odder and odder thoughts compelling me to something dumb, dangerous or both. I can mitigate these brain whispers by smaller and regular spur of the moment decisions: change the way I walk home, buy gum instead of crisps or split up with my girlfriend and quit my job to search for something better on one of the best freelance sites I can find. Saturday was an example of one of these mild but weird decisions.
I went to Coventry
The life of a blogger is nothing if not glamorous, only last week I was backstage at the dress rehearsal for 3P’s marvellous version of The Nativity. Even before the performance, the squash was flowing and more than a couple of biscuits were passed around. Amid all the revelry the pre-performance jitters were in evidence: the third Wise Man had to be cajoled to climb out of the book cupboard and several shepherds had to be persuaded from kicking their prop sheep out of the window altogether.
The performance was a masterpiece, including a entirely improvised bank robbery sub-plot and a song and dance number that went on for three or four extra verses because none of the cast could remember how to end the song. I’m proud to be a part of such a game changing version of the Christmas story, which this year focussed completely on the story of the shepherds as 3P has no girls in it to play Mary. Granted, my role was to stand in the wings and push the correct performer to his mark at their cue. I got pretty good too, I now reckon I can shove an average-sized seven year old with an Olympic degree of accuracy.
Given last years hysterical SNOWPOCOLYSE response from the media, its good to see the novelty has worn off. Of course the reaction was purely from the media, and it was disingenuous to say the least to see the TV news swing from headlines inferring that the poor are eating their young to a slideshow of people sledding, building snowmen and generally larking about, in the same show.
It’s not even newsworthy to mention how the snow has suddenly become not that newsworthy, which is good, because the implications of that could cause a recursive news feedback loop which would by 2015 see Nick Owen reading the news from his inside his own lungs.
Continue reading “Grit and wisdom”
I hate Howard Donald, I hate his surprising lack of talent, I hate his weird under-bite that reminds of a duck’s face and even his name which, upon reflection, is where I really get the duck association from*. I also hate that he was one of the many people overjoyed at the news two rich inbreeds will be spending our money on a wedding. This in a time of what were told is aggressive austerity. People are angrily shouting about their indifference and spending a lot of time stating how much they couldn’t care less. We haven’t had such an explosion of poor wit since the Pope’s visit.
Not that Howard the Donald Duck is massive royalist that I know of, he was overjoyed along with a whole slew of people because he was able to bury the news of his Super Injunction underneath a whole bunch of flag waving jingoistic piffle. For others try here.
Continue reading “Take That, legal system”
The opinions of Danny Smith do not necessarily reflect the views of the publishers of this blog, its affiliates, or any sane adult human beings. He currently lives in your cupboard, watching, always watching.
Is it weird to be nostalgic for a period of time you were never part of? Some would argue all nostalgia is this way: that your memory or perception of the events you pine for are rose-tinted by time. But, I yearn for a bygone age where men were men but dressed like women and women had massive lady-bush growlers that would require their own bottle of shampoo. I talk of course about the seventies—era of Glam Rock.
I suppose I’ve been thinking about it because one of the godfathers of Glam, Roy Wood, got his own star on the increasingly hilarious and ever-tenuous Birmingham Walk Of Stars. Seriously, if anything symbolises the flaw in Birmingham’s self-perception better than the Broad Street Walk of Stars, I’ve yet to see it. Our struggling middle-child attitude of trying to emulate the success of others by copying what they do, our lack of confidence to trust in the emerging talent this city has in droves, our willingness to be what others want us to be rather than being proud of what we are. And it’s all set in concrete and littered on an area of Birmingham that resembles a boozy crèche for the mentally violent and sexually weird four nights a week.
That’s not to say I don’t respect Roy Wood, or any of the Star recipients, although if I hear I wish it could be Christmas everyday with its usual frequency this holiday season I may climb a clock tower and start picking people off.
