According to an article in yesterday’s Times newspaper, Birmingham, my hometown, is officially “the weirdest place in the UK.” and rated the “capital of spooky phenomena”. Apparently showers of frogs, gigantic hailstones, miraculous lightning cures, tornados, and mince pies being dripped by UFOs are almost everyday occurrences in the great second city. Well, pretty frequent (although the only dated examples quoted in the article were 1954 and 1980).
Now readers of my earlier post – the Great Divide – will realise that I am a proud Brummie (although I was actually born in Walsall – the most unhappy town in the country) but I am not exactly surprised.
Presumably the Extra Terrestrials are attracted by the aerial views of “Spaghetti Junction” or “the Boob Tube”, or, just come to gawk at the local fashion – white socks are, unfortunately, still very prevalent with your fashion (un) conscious Midland Man.
The plagues and extreme weather phenomena are probably just God’s way of trying to clean the place up a bit. Well, it worked for the Brindley Wharf area (Gas Street Basin as was). Weird it may be, but not as weird as where mu mother-in-law lives. My mother-in-law lives in Royston Vasey.
Showing posts with label walsall. Show all posts
Showing posts with label walsall. Show all posts
Thursday, 20 March 2008
Wednesday, 20 February 2008
Going Nowhere Fast
Going Nowhere Fast
My new job requires me to commute on a regular basis between the leafy, rural lanes of south Cheshire to the grid-locked conglomeration of roadworks and building sites which is Walsall. I notice that Wikipedia provides a pronunciation tool to help one say “Walsall” correctly. Which, is probably why most of my friends are confused, believing that I am currently employed in the capital of Poland.
While resembling many former Soviet block towns and cities, Walsall is, in fact, in the Black Country – not yet a reference to its ethnic mix but to the smoky, sooty side-effects of the Industrial Revolution. “Walsall” is thought to be derived from the words “Wah halh”, meaning “valley of the Celtic speakers” or “where people speak like Benny off Crossroads”. Walsall is “famous” for its arboretum and its illuminations and is officially the “Unhappiest Town” in the country (according to a First Direct poll) and is compared with Ceaucescu’s Romania and declared “The ugliest place in the world”.
Famous residents include Noddy Holder (my friends will regale me with their renditions of the “Kipper Tie/Cuppa Tea” joke at the drop of a hat) and Boy George. And, very briefly my good self. For I was born in the Manor Hospital, which is virtually next door to the office where I now work. You see, I have come a long way!
Anyhow, my commute takes me down the M6. I hate the M6. It has been a long time since I have had to drive regularly on the great British motorway system but it hasn’t taken me long to loathe it. Not so long ago, I enjoyed a holiday in France which involved driving the full length of the country, to the Pyrenees, along French motorways with tolls. It was an absolute pleasure. The M6, however, is a nightmare.
The inside lane is consistently clogged with a train of heavy trucks going nowhere fast and occasionally interspersed with a caravan or an old lady in a Volvo in an obvious state of panic having believed she had turned into the carpark of her local supermarket and not the slip-road to one of our busiest roads.
What is worse, the middle lane is also frequently clogged by HGVs who seem to forget that they have speed limiters installed and, therefore, are not able to go any faster than the similarly restricted trucks that they are trying to overtake. And this then forces all of the other vehicles into the third lane – I will not refer to it as the “fast” lane, for it is not!
I try to drive safely, by keeping a suitable distance (count to 5) between me and the car in front. But if I ever do leave more than a gap equivalent in size to a gnat’s tadger, it is immediately filled by someone swerving to avoid a truck in the middle lane, more often than not without indicating (mirror, signal, manoeuvre). More often than not it is a “white van” with “clean me” humorously (not) written on the dirty rear doors, around which I am unable to see, and which proceeds to hover on and off his brake lights for the next thirty miles or so.
As I am driving a TT, every boy racer in a toy racing car (Mazdas, MGs, Chrysler Crossfires, Porsche Boxters and the like) or a Golf GTI, seems to feel honour bound to undertake me. Fortunately, you can see these guys coming from quite a distance because they have their fog lights glaring even in the height of summer (it is illegal). And at night you can see their fake-tan orange faces, dimly lit by the glow from the Blackberry Pearl or Borg-like hands-free earpieces permanently stuck to their ears or the reflection from their Tom Tom screen which obscure the view.
Tailgating, poor lane discipline, not indicating, undertaking, women drivers, Volvos and flat caps. It is a miracle that I ever make it to the office in the morning. The only reason I do is because I seem to average a speed of about 10 miles per hour. Admittedly this is an average of brief seconds of doing the national speed limit (:) - honest) and the couple of years that I seem to sit in stopped traffic between junctions 11 and 10.
Now, where did I put my valium?
My new job requires me to commute on a regular basis between the leafy, rural lanes of south Cheshire to the grid-locked conglomeration of roadworks and building sites which is Walsall. I notice that Wikipedia provides a pronunciation tool to help one say “Walsall” correctly. Which, is probably why most of my friends are confused, believing that I am currently employed in the capital of Poland.
While resembling many former Soviet block towns and cities, Walsall is, in fact, in the Black Country – not yet a reference to its ethnic mix but to the smoky, sooty side-effects of the Industrial Revolution. “Walsall” is thought to be derived from the words “Wah halh”, meaning “valley of the Celtic speakers” or “where people speak like Benny off Crossroads”. Walsall is “famous” for its arboretum and its illuminations and is officially the “Unhappiest Town” in the country (according to a First Direct poll) and is compared with Ceaucescu’s Romania and declared “The ugliest place in the world”.
Famous residents include Noddy Holder (my friends will regale me with their renditions of the “Kipper Tie/Cuppa Tea” joke at the drop of a hat) and Boy George. And, very briefly my good self. For I was born in the Manor Hospital, which is virtually next door to the office where I now work. You see, I have come a long way!
Anyhow, my commute takes me down the M6. I hate the M6. It has been a long time since I have had to drive regularly on the great British motorway system but it hasn’t taken me long to loathe it. Not so long ago, I enjoyed a holiday in France which involved driving the full length of the country, to the Pyrenees, along French motorways with tolls. It was an absolute pleasure. The M6, however, is a nightmare.
The inside lane is consistently clogged with a train of heavy trucks going nowhere fast and occasionally interspersed with a caravan or an old lady in a Volvo in an obvious state of panic having believed she had turned into the carpark of her local supermarket and not the slip-road to one of our busiest roads.
What is worse, the middle lane is also frequently clogged by HGVs who seem to forget that they have speed limiters installed and, therefore, are not able to go any faster than the similarly restricted trucks that they are trying to overtake. And this then forces all of the other vehicles into the third lane – I will not refer to it as the “fast” lane, for it is not!
I try to drive safely, by keeping a suitable distance (count to 5) between me and the car in front. But if I ever do leave more than a gap equivalent in size to a gnat’s tadger, it is immediately filled by someone swerving to avoid a truck in the middle lane, more often than not without indicating (mirror, signal, manoeuvre). More often than not it is a “white van” with “clean me” humorously (not) written on the dirty rear doors, around which I am unable to see, and which proceeds to hover on and off his brake lights for the next thirty miles or so.
As I am driving a TT, every boy racer in a toy racing car (Mazdas, MGs, Chrysler Crossfires, Porsche Boxters and the like) or a Golf GTI, seems to feel honour bound to undertake me. Fortunately, you can see these guys coming from quite a distance because they have their fog lights glaring even in the height of summer (it is illegal). And at night you can see their fake-tan orange faces, dimly lit by the glow from the Blackberry Pearl or Borg-like hands-free earpieces permanently stuck to their ears or the reflection from their Tom Tom screen which obscure the view.
Tailgating, poor lane discipline, not indicating, undertaking, women drivers, Volvos and flat caps. It is a miracle that I ever make it to the office in the morning. The only reason I do is because I seem to average a speed of about 10 miles per hour. Admittedly this is an average of brief seconds of doing the national speed limit (:) - honest) and the couple of years that I seem to sit in stopped traffic between junctions 11 and 10.
Now, where did I put my valium?
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