Birmingham Blues (Birmingham (Alabama))

Name: beowulf

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Product:	Birmingham (Alabama)
Date:	31/03/03 (146 review reads)
Rating:

Advantages: Pubs, Clubs, etc...

Disadvantages: Tramps, Scroungers, etc...

I am an Urbanite. Don't get me wrong I love the countryside, but there's just something about the hustle and bustle of a big city that gets me going. The bright lights, the beautiful people, pubs and clubs on every corner. I would never swap city living for an idyllic rural retreat, but listed below are a few minuses of metropolis habitation. My opinion is gleaned from years of experiences in Birmingham, but I believe the below list applies to all city centres.




TALES FROM TRAMPS

Whatever happened to the simple, heartfelt plea from a humble street urchin of "10p for a cup of tea guv'nor"? Did these days ever exist or have I read too many Charles Dickens novels? Depending on my mood I could either fumble for a bit of change and walk away with a warm 'Ready Brek' glow safe in the knowledge I had notched up a few brownie points for the afterlife, or shuffle on by embarrassedly pretending there was something really interesting to read on the pavement just in front of me that demanded my total attention.

Now walking through my town centre without encountering a street beggar is an achievement akin to Gazza winning the Nobel Peace Prize. They are master tacticians and often hunt in packs; the way they are able to single me out, especially just after pay day, is astounding. I try all the usual diversion tactics; wearing headphones playing music louder than one of Timmy Mallet's shirts, adopting a steely gaze many miles into the distance and bounding up and down the road with my best Grant Mitchell face. But none of it works.

The usual scenario; I am approached by Agent X, usually female, pitifully dressed in a mangy blanket or sleeping bag. I usually manage to skilfully sidestep this threat by sheltering behind two old ladies, slow my pace down to their pedestrian amble and then produce a gazelle-like burst of speed the other side of them to freedom! "Hee hee, take that blanket woman
", I smugly think to myself as I continue along the High Street blissfully unaware of the danger ahead. Agent X you see is merely the sheepdog to the shepherd, the lioness coaxing her pray into the death trap of males hungrily waiting to pounce for the jugular. I am then approached by said male who is eagerly eyeing up the large bulge in my jeans (yes my wallet), and all my hard work has gone to waste. "Bugger it", I think, "Well it's a fair cop, I might as well give the chap a few pennies." But, oh no, the days of handing over 20p and a pat on the back are long gone. What follows is usually a tragic, epic tale of Shakespearian proportions.

"Alright mate"? says the male, "Me and the missus (pointing to Agent X) are superior beings from Planet Bramogot, and we landed in your world in search of universal peace bearing gifts of love. We find that our currency of Zaurian Yaksholts is invalid in your strange and wonderful land. Could you spare 20 of your earth pounds so we may fund our research into the threat of intergalactic warfare", etc.. At this point I feel like saying, "Yes but last week you told me you were the King and Queen of Burundi who had been kicked out of 10 Downing Street by Tony Blair after breaking wind in front of Cherie, a custom considered polite in your country", but I just don't have the strength. Instead I hand over a quid or so to our extraterrestrial friends and continue on my merry way.


KEVS

With apologies to any decent Kevins out there this title is just a generic term to describe the alarming mass of uneducated, anti-social, coarse, common and braindead young men on our city streets. Without trying to sound like one of the 'Bring Back National Service' brigade, I truly believe this nation is getting uglier as a whole. Every time I venture into town I am greeted by the sight of a multitude of spotty, tracksuit-wearing, jug-eared, buffoons
with dodgy haircuts and wispy moustaches sitting for hours on end with their mates, a cheap can of lager in one hand and a fag dangling out of the corner of their mouths, trying to impress a gaggle of gormless panda-eyed, bubble-permed, pasty-faced girls.

The favourite haunts of Kevs are outside fish and chip shops, the local off-licence and near phone boxes. They all sport the same Kev uniform of a single earring and a meaningless tattoo on their seriously underdeveloped arms. They also like to frequent the backs of buses in great numbers and be really impressive by smoking, spitting on the floor, dropping litter and playing shite, tinny music turned up to the max on their personal stereos. Do everyone a favour Kevs; go away, grow up and get a job.


PEOPLE I ENCOUNTER DURING MY LUNCH HOUR

The last 2 words of the title are the important part of this section. Lunch and hour; I work for 8 hours a day, 40 hours a week and, therefore, I have the need to find food during the working day and I have 60 minutes to accomplish this task. Because I am a lazy git, I can't be bothered to make myself sandwiches before I go to work and so I must brave running the gaunlet of the city centre run between my office and the local baguette shop for my lunch. The shop is only a matter of a couple of hundred metres away from my office. 60 minutes, 200 meters, one sandwich; sound simple? You should try it.

200-150 metres from shop

?Big Issue, Big Issue. Help the Homeless.? Now I have no problem giving away £1.50 once a week to the big issue seller, there but for the grace of God goes me and all that , but this particular Big Issue seller has the memory of a goldfish and forgets that I bought a copy off her just the day before. Depending on my mood I tell her I've already bought this week's edition or I am forced to take a major diversion to my snack stop. Either way that is 10 minutes wasted.

150-100 metres from the sh
op

Religious nutters. I'm a tolerant guy and I believe in 'live and let live', but what I don't want is some saucer-eyed, loin-cloth wearing freakoid forcing their misguided beliefs down my throat during my crusade to the promised land of 'Baguette du Monde' (especially when the only thing I want forced down my throat is a Cheese and Spring Onion special). However, I am a sucker for a good argument and usually get embroilled in a heated discussion of why my C of E religion kicks the ass of all others. Another 15 minutes wasted.


100-50 metres away from the shop

Market Research. ?Do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions, won't take a minute??, enquires the young and attractive lady with the clipboard. Flattered that she should take the time to single me out from the multitudes, I agree to take part in the survey even though my stomach is as empty as a Mirror Pensioner's Bank Account. However, the couple of questions that won't take a minute turns into a total grilling on my personal, shooping and sexual habits over the last 20 years. I eventually manage to prise myself away from the mantrap after another 15 minutes of inane questions.


After 40 minutes of my alloted 60 I finally manage to reach the safe haven of the baguette shop where I dicover that all that's left is a mouldy sausage roll and a pickled egg.



Despite all of the above I would never swap city life for a million years. Thanks for reading.

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