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My
Birmingham The backward glance to where one has been
gives the assurance of making progress, without which there can be no
future.
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Tunnel-backs, Back-to-backs, Terraces and
trams. Pseudo-Tudor Smug bow-fronts, Are Brummy Birmingham's Warm
and sooty legacy To a dead Edwardian age, That flickers through my
memory, Page by wistful page. |
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The Bull Ring,
week-a-day, filled with raucous cries. Of barrow-boys and spivs and gypsy
didikais Escapologists and china-from-the-van, "andy carrier!"
bags and the red-faced chestnut man. Odours of the fish market, fruit
and flowers abound, The smells of roasting spuds and the lavvys 'neath
the ground. St Martin's-in-the-Fields, elysian in black gown, Stared with
sooted eyes, but not unkindly, down On a human tapestry; The noisy
humoured shopper. The spik'ed helmet copper, And the swanking sort of
swagger of a Brummy pageantry. |
Sunday, in the
Ring, was religion's market place; Shouting the odds For their different
gods And the hecklers setting the pace. Soap-box dictators, Hot roast
potatoes, The Sally-Ann beating their drum. The Mormons and
Baptists And Seventh day Adaptists, Cold Winter's night Beginning to
bite And making one's fingers all numb. The drunks from the Bull and the
old timbered Crown. The police in thick woollen gloves, Sang as they
stamped their feet up and down, To the tunes that everyone loved. And
when only the wind soughed silently round The paper in gutter and
doorway, The old Market Hall, Impressive and tall, Winked across at
the Army & Navy. |
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Gangs, my gang
and them, The others from the Grove, The Fisher twins And Hidden
dens, A childish treasure trove. The fights, the sights, In Elmdon's
fields and Hobs Moats' tiny wood. Of damming streams and sailing
dreams That no-one understood. The days seemed longer then, The sun
seemed somehow warmer. |
Things were
realer when They sold a penny ice-cream At the shop on 'Horseshoes'
corner. |
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The trolley-bus
with spark'ed arm Grabbed high, live wires And hissed on tyres With
tall and stately calm. Red plastic tokens, clutched in sticky
hands, Tickets, concertina bent, played in noisy bands. Iron-shuttered
school of sooty brick, Tarmac fields a marble's flick Away from factory
vista. Cream and green the tiled rooms, 'Click-clack, click-clack' the
cracked bell dooms, And cold the iron bannister. |
Miss Skinner
was the art teacher. Art was my favourite lesson; it was the only subject I was
ever even remotely good at and I did so want to impress Miss Skinner. English
was incomprehensible, I mean, fancy having rules for just talkin'. Maths and
Algebra might just as well have been in Serbo-Croat. Somehow no-one managed to
connect education with pleasure, or life, or happiness, at least not inside my
head they didn't. Education involved pain and suffering and basilisk eyes that
missed nothing; except for Miss Skinner. We could have been happy, Miss Skinner
and me. |
Minds still
closed we were let out - set free! To run and jump and scream and shout and
spend our energy. 'Twas then we found As round and round We whirled so
crazily, That life was more Than two plus four And one plus one
sometimes made three. |
Stella was
blonde with blue eyes. I gave Stella a jewelled anchor with a lover's knot. It
cost the enormous sum of three shillings and I passed it via a third party
during class. We never actually spoke, Stella and me, but she played the
starring role in all my dreams, especially the wet ones. But, Stella was the
unattainable - a year older. |
Rowing boats on
Small Heath pond, "Come in number nine, your time is up", "We haven't got
a number nine". "Are you in trouble number six? We don't like them sort
of tricks". Giggling girls with boy-friends fond, Scruffy kids with
string tied jars Tiddler fishing beneath the stars.
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Whilst lovers
to the band-stand creep And keeper's brothel slippered feet Slither over
fresh mown lawn To catch a love before it's born. Then fast they run past
tennis nets Before the sarky-parky narky gets.
In Olton Park
long summer nights recall The games that gave a fleeting touch, The
glances met that meant so much, And games that were no games at all.
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The Onion Fair
at Aston Cross, The Hippodrome and Alex. The West End dance hall and the
Rink (The Brummie's cultural palace). A tram ride to the Lickey
Hills, |
The Terminus
arcade, The slot machines, roundabouts and fizzy lemonade. The Sheldon,
the Adelphi, Art-deco Tivoli, Bred darkness dreams of derring-do in
(k)nightly chivalry. Tears with Lassie, Flash Gordon fights again!
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Abbot fools
Costello on a speeding train. Down in the front row peering at the
screen, Wondrous flickering images of universal dream; Manchu from the
Orient, Tales of Clicky-ba, Villains on vile murder bent, Classic
chases in a car. Cinematic living, The vicarious kind, Filling
knowledge missing In the spaces of my mind. |
I never
walked down those marbled steps; I danced, usually with Cyd Charisse or Mitzi
Gaynor. I was the narrow-eyed Private Dick of the latest thriller, with one
hand pushed inside my jacket resting on my forty-five automatic and ready to
blast my way out of danger. Sometimes I would hit those marbled steps with
six-guns blazing from both hips - I always shot from the hip, seemed more
casual, if you know what I mean. |
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Energetic
country dancing at the Mosely Institute, Dirndl skirts, 'New look'
flirts, Folksy looking dancers being cute. Town Hall concerts in the city
hall, Big band sounds, we heard them all; Ted Heath, Joe Loss, Delaney on
the drums, Ellington and Basie, Ella singing racy, And ogling Lita
Roza with my chums. |
In the plating
shop at the B.S.A., Where men were feared to tread, The turbanned,
rollered women worked Who filled us all with dread; Such tales we'd
heard, of mystic rites, Of balls being blacked and awful sights Of peni
into bottles fed. Then hosepipes littered the Coventry Road, From last
night's German raid, The B.S.A. laid starkly low by death's sour-scyth'ed
blade. Five hundred souls lie buried there to this very day, And in the
silent reach of night, Or so the watchmen say, You can hear the
clank Of a capstan crank And the shrilling drills at play. And if you
listen very hard you'll hear the peal Of a young man's squeal As the
women have him away. |
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The College of
Art, in Margaret Street Refuge, so they said, Of classrooms full of lady
nudes - a thought to turn ones head. Alas, thick thighed they were with
bored and spotty faces, Bulging tums, tired bums and non-erotic
places.
But this city
was alive, with a strongly pulsing heart, Forged on Trojan anvils into a
mighty Midland mart; Vulcan, with Thor's hammer, measured out the
beat; Dunlop, Austin, Cadbury, The Mail, the Argus, the
Mercury. Machine tools and chains, Castings and cranes, Pounding and
pounding To echo in brains Where the pulse of the heart Was so rich
and so sweet. |
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New Street
station, Heart of a nation, Had a warm and friendly face. With a
roast-potato engine in Stephenson Place Snow Hill was a dark pit, A
smoky, clanking hold, But Moor Street seemed to smile a bit And trips to
Blackpool sold. |
'Blackpool'
was standing on the platform of Moor Street Station in the dark and cold of the
early, early morning; we'd had to catch the first bus to get there on time and
the conductors always teased us about not being awake. On the platform we
stamped the cold out of our bodies, still blinking the sleep from our eyes and
shivering with anticipation. Blackpool was sea and sand, donkey rides and rock;
jaw breaking, teeth rotting rock with the name BLACKPOOL right through it.
Without the name it simply wasn't potent magic. Side-shows on the front, Punch
& Judy, bands, noise and then, that holy of holies, mecca of meccas, the
South Beach Fun Fair with 'IT', the 'thing' with which we terrified each other,
hurling dares and double-dares with reckless and malicious
glee. |
IT was, of
course, the Big Dipper with its stomach churning, rock regurgitating plunge
into a seemingly bottomless pit. Oh, God! It was marvellous. It terrified us
and we loved it. And then the train again. In the darkness, rocking, sleepy,
sick and pallid with satiety, happy-sad; sad because things always seemed to be
only just starting when we had to leave to catch the last train to catch the
last bus home. |
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Like sequenced
lights in mental flights, One thought illumes another, But Brum for me
will always be My Mum and Aston Villa. |
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These memories
are from my childhood and teens; I started work at the B.S.A. aged 14. They are
of a Birmingham into which I was born and which I recall with much affection.
They are my memories and I ask you to forgive my indulgences, but they
are all part of what makes me the person I am.
I am also
reminded that having a good memory is reliant on others having a bad one. "I
know of no way of judging the future, but by the past." - Patrick Henry
1775 |
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