11-11-11: Handsworth

(By way of a recap: on 11th November 2008 Clare & I embarked on a public transport-based Kerouacian Carousel around the City of Birmingham. I'm writing up the journey in a series of urban travelblogs that are insterspersed with low humour and the occasional knob gag. Think Bill Bryson meets the late Reg Varney.)

As we make our way out of Winson Green along Handsworth New Road, onto Boulton Road, across Soho Road and up Rookery Road, I notice ubiquitous fly posters advertising a Public Enemy gig at the Custard Factory in December.


Three things come to mind:

1. I like Public Enemy.
2. I'd very much like to see Public Enemy at the Custard Factory in December.
3. How come I didn't know about this already?
   

I consider saying to Clare in my wheezy, Old Git Tom voice: "Public Enemy, now that was proper hip hop. Chuck D not only articulated the righteous anger of a generation with his incisive, incendiary lyrics and toe-tapping beats, but you could hear every word he was rapping. Not like this modern rubbish you hear on the radio."

I decide to keep my mouth shut after Clare shoots me one of her impeccably-timed If you're going to say what I think you're going to say then you better not say it-looks. I'm not going to risk it: she's been right more times than she's been wrong. Besides, it's never a good idea to mock your older self. You'll only end up resenting yourself later.

But still, I want to know why I didn't know that Public Enemy were playing at the Custard Factory in December. Has this got something to do with the conspicuous lack of fly posters along the route I drive to work? Should I write a letter to the council, or would it be easier to change my travel arrangements?

Maybe, and maybe not. I've got a horrible feeling, though, that there's a lesson to be a learnt from all of this. Worse, it's one of those deeply ironic lessons that I really hate:

Has it taken a journey along Birmingham's Outer Ring Road to make me realise that I'm totally out of the loop?

Nick Horner's article in last week's Great Barr Observer about the virtual reconstruction of Kingstanding's former Odeon cinema will be of interest to those odd critters like me who have a weakness for magnificent old cinema buildings. I don't know what the technical term for this is, but I suppose you could call us necrocinephiles.

Anyhow, I posted about this recently, but in the meantime Nick has since done some proper journalistic legwork and uncovered some additional information. King's Visualisation Lab (KVL) created their VR Odeon Kingstanding in 2003 and their plan was to eventually construct a comprehensive database of virtually reconstructed British cinema buildings. Unfortunately, one of KVL's partners pulled out and the database has been on hold ever since.

According to Martin Blazeby, researcher and 3D modeller at KVL, the design team used eye witness accounts and even visited the art deco cinema-turned-bingo hall to take paint samples: "We found a specific type of green, Odeon green, which had been painted over when the cinema became a bingo venue."

If you happen to be a well-heeled necrocinephile with philanthropic tendencies, then this project needs you. You can contact them via this link.

Here's a couple of pics of the Kingstanding Odeon in its heyday. Firstly, an exterior shot courtesy of English Heritage's John Maltby Collection:



And here's the ornate lobby from Digital Handsworth:

Batman vs Batman

From Variety:

Batman has a new adversary: Batman.

The mayor of an oil-producing city in southeastern Turkey, which has the same name as the Caped Crusader, is suing helmer Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros. for royalties from mega-grosser The Dark Knight.

Huseyin Kalkan, the pro-Kurdish Democratic Society Party mayor of Batman, has accused The Dark Knight producers of using the city's name without permission.

"There is only one Batman in the world," Kalkan said. "The American producers used the name of our city without informing us."

JJ Abrams' Star Trek trailer

Yummy.

11-11-11: Winson Green

"The road you can talk about is not the road you can walk on."

Lao-Tse - Tao Te Ching

At about 2.10pm the bus is driving through Winson Green.

For the uninitiated, Clare and I are indulging in a spot of guerrilla ethnomethodology aboard Birmingham's legendary number 11 bus. Some youths board the bus and sit behind us. This doesn't concern us, however, as everyone else on the top deck is sitting behind us, too. That's what happens when you sit on the front seat.

Before long, we notice a suspicious, burning odour coming from behind. This isn't the typical, pungent, herb-based burning odour that's commonly associated with philosophy students, jazz aficionados and the top deck of a double decker bus, though. This doesn't smell like anything exotic, illegal or monged. No, it smells like someone is baking a jacket potato.

"Kids nowadays," says Clare.

We're driving through Winson Green, and Winson Green - of course - is best known for its prison. In fact, to most Brummies, 'Winson Green' means prison. In this respect it joins a long list of locations that seem forever lumbered with deep-seated incarceration associations. Notorious places like Strangeways in Manchester, Alcatraz in San Francisco and Portmeirion in Wales.

Which is a bit of shame, really. If you manage to separate the word from its links with the local lock-up, then Winson Green itself is quite a pretty name for a place. It wouldn't seem out of place in Trumptonshire, alongside Camberwick Green and Chigley.

Of course, things like that are always easier said than done. This place and its prison seem to be neuro-linguistically fused in the popular imagination. It'll take more than Zen detachment and baked potatoes to sever those tethers.

The fact the 11 bus drives straight past the prison probably doesn't help.

11-11-11: From Bearwood to Edgbaston

By 2pm we've left Harborne. It happens to us all eventually.

After crossing Hagley Road (home to my old sixth form, St Philip's College), the number 11 saunters wistfully along the Bearwood High Street as another song comes to mind. This time, it's the sublime This is What She's Like from Dexys Midnight Runners' wilfully uncommercial and criminally underrated 1985 album, Don't Stand Me Down:



On the album version of the song, The Little Nibble café on the Bearwood Road gets name checked during some pre-song banter (legend has it that Kevin Rowland and his bandmates used to meet there for tea-dinking sessions). Sadly, The Little Nibble ceased trading in January, Dexys haven't recorded a studio album since Don't Stand Me Down and I've been sitting on the top deck of the number 11 for long enough now to start making connections.

We take a right onto Sandon Road and into Edgbaston, passing the former home of my good friend, the macaroon-chomping friend of Garfield Jez Higgins. I remember going to a barbeque there years' ago. Jez and his goodwyf Nat are vegetarians, so this - understandably enough - was a vegetarian barbecue. Our mutual friend - the talented comic artist and occasional thug, Tony McGee - arrived at this vegetarian event clutching a greasy megaburger in his mitts. I vividly remember him wantonly flaunting his tasty bovine-based snack with scant regard for the feelings of others. At least, I'm pretty certain it was Tony.

I hope it wasn't me.

11-11-11: Lost Souls and Plimsoles

Well we know where we're goin'
But we dont know where we've been
And we know what were knowin'
But we can't say what weve seen

Talking Heads - Road to Nowhere

It's about 1.50pm, Clare and I are still in Harborne and we're still sitting on the front seat of the top deck of Birmingham's legendary number 11 bus. We're sitting to the right of the bus, and - on Lordswood Road - a girl sitting to our left gets up and click-clacks her way down the steps in a pair of presumably-fashionable high heel plimsoles. This may seem fairly inconsequential to you, but for me it was the catalyst for a minor revalation: sitting on the front seat of the top deck might give you a great view of the road ahead, but when it comes to interbus people-watching it's far from ideal. Visibility is seriously impaired due to the fact that almost everybody else is sitting behind you.

It was, of course, Clare who noticed her shoes: footwear observations aren't exactly my forte. I wouldn't have clocked what was on her feet if she staggered past me in a pair of of Elton John's 4 foot tall Doc Martens.

I assume she's a regular passenger, not some eejit with a blog and a day off work whose partial to a bit of public transport-based sociological high jinks. This is someone with a destination in mind, who knows exactly where she's going. She's the kind of person who uses the bus to get from A to B, not someone who misuses the bus to get from A to A.

It's probably best if I don't dwell on the metaphorical implications of any of this.