City 48: Wolverhampton

Getting There

After tea and chat Leishy and I get in the bat mobile and head down the hill. From Ironbridge we make for the the M54 . Bless that road. We truck to Junction 3, the Cosford Junction, where the RAF have a base and then speed past Albrighton and the Moat Project which I visited with former students, one of whom vomited in the back of my bosses car. Love her. Onto the A41 Newport Road we crawl, pealing off down Yew Tree Lane and latterly Mill Lane to arrive at Point 1, Wightwick Manor and Gardens. Built by 19th century Industrialists the Mander Family from 1887, the interiors were inspired by a lecture by Oscar Wilde, on the house beautiful.  It’s a nice holding tank. Since 1937 its been in the hands of the National Trust and has become part of England’s Mausoleum Culture. Inside there are notable works by Morris, Burne-Jones and Millais, Pre-Raffs trying to dream themselves somewhere better than than industrial Revolution. I used to be an NT member. Not any more. Once you do all the local haunts membership ceases to make sense. It’s a warm day and we loiter in the sun. Leishy has his guide dog with him. We chat over cake and tea, like aging Victorian gentlemen.

Mind Your Manors

Leishy and Benny at Wightwick.

Finally ready to do the city we head into town via the Bridgnorth Road. Then through Compton. It’s a bit of a nostalgia cruise, admittedly. Paul and I were at Point 2 the University of Wolverhampton together here. Back then he lived in Burntwood and I used to pick him up on the way there and drop him off on the way back. As Paul is blind, I also worked as his guide and note taker, and spent many happy hours recording set texts, abstracts and papers in his bedroom into his portable tape recorder. I’m not sure I would have read as much as did or as thoroughly without Paul. He has a great eye for the important detail, whereas I’m sloppier, more apt to follow diversions and take the pathway to digression. The Uni has changed beyond all recognition. In our second year they began knocking most of it down. The psychology bloc, which we called the bloody tower, was reduced to a stack of rubble.

Bloody

There’s a serial killer flick, set in Russia, in which a cop and a psychologist work together to chase down a child murderer who has killed hundreds of kids and buried them in forest beside train tracks all over Russia.  The characters of the cop and psychologist are an odd combination. They are chalk and cheese, vinegar and chips, fish and bicycle but somehow they work. In the movie, the supervisor character played by Donald Sutherland says, ‘you know, together you make a wonderful person,’ and in truth that’s how Paul and I were and are. Together we make a wonderful person. Whenever we were working Paul would be amazing until hunger kicked in and we’d have to go eat. He would just down tools and refuse to say anything else. We usually ate in a café called Jays on Stafford Street. This is Point 3.You could get a killer veggie burger there and the people who ran it were warm and helpful. Paul’s guide dog, Tilly (a beautiful black bitch) also got loads of fuss, as well as secret titbits. It’s no longer there, Jays. Something else is. So we smile and move on.

Jay's

Post Uni I worked in the nearby Wulfrun College, Point 4. This would have been in 2006 and just for three months. There were frequent riots there and a suspected ricin attack one day. One moment I am teaching the next I see people sprinting past my door in an agitated manner, through the quarter pane. Think Jumanji when they are being pursued by the rhinos and you’ll get it.  The police, fire and ambulance services showed up. It was like a disaster movie. The Police told everyone to stay put and all the teachers did. Like the compliant slaves we are. The reasoning was that if we were infected we couldn’t be allowed to mingle with the rest of the population. The students how ever did not see the logic and took to their heels. It was three hours before we had the all clear by which time the students could have been half way to France. Thankfully it wasn’t ricin. Just tear gas. Gang warfare at its best.

I Predict a Riot

The University complex has evolved into something impressive, albeit from the outside. It’s situated right on a ring road that reminds me of the race track in Ben Hur. To cross the Ring Road is to place your life into the hands of the God of Chance. We’ve had more than a few lucky escapes, have Paul and I. More than once I’ve said ‘Paul I’m glad you couldn’t see what just happened. Usually this happens when I’m like driving down a one way street the wrong way. In the city centre we bump into a guy selling Express and Star newspapers in a red box. That box is Point 5. He’s done it for 30 years or more. I ask him how the city has changed over the years. He looks me straight in the eye and deadpans, ‘they’ve ruined it.’ Then he goes back to yelling, ‘Get your mail. Get your mail.’ He looks like Keith Lemon circa 2011 when he was doing Michael Jackson impressions as Bo Selecta but he has an amazing voice and accent and he is in truth.   

Get Your Mail

Next door to the law courts is the Wolverhampton Civic Hall, Point 6. Here in 1988 after the Smiths (my favourite band growing up) had broken up, they briefly reformed without Traitor Marr and did a free concert. All you had to do was wear a Smiths T shirt. There were 3000 people in the streets and the venue has a capacity of 2000 or so. But we got there early and queued all day. The Smiths arrived in a 1950s green and cream charabanc. Mike Joyce was on his feet pointing like a ourangatan at fruit just out of reach. Rourke looked spaced. Marr was nowhere. He’d been replaced by Craig Gannon, albeit that he lasted for minutes only. Morrissey, our hero, raised his head coyly, smiled and then hid his face behind his hands. The atmosphere on the street was electric. Revolution was in the air. And sure enough there was a riot as soon as they opened the doors. Tig, my best mate, and I were pushed against a wall whilst the crowd surged from the back through the open doors flashing their Smiths T Shirts. We waited patiently as the Police did nothing. We waited until we got to the doors and then the staff closed the door, right in our faces. Our friends, who had spent most of their time, not in the queue like us, but in MacDonalds got in and we didn’t. After the concert I went into the hall. I was heartbroken. The air crackled. It was like the aftermath of the sermon on the mount. Not a concert but a religious experience. The Curse of Wolverhampton. It even reads like a Smiths Song. Still I made it onto the video.

Hulmerist

From the Civic Hall we head into West Park. It has dual lakes with islands and flocks of vaguely threatening Canada geese. Carp swim in the water and flowers glow from the well tended borders. The key image, Point 7, is the Park’s Bandstand. Besides psychology Paul and I share a love of music. I carry a tune but I don’t play anything. Over the years Paul has supplied me with dozens of tracks for my numerous drama projects, recording everything from scratch. Not only is he an amazing musician, who can play any instrument on the planet, he is also a brilliant producer with an amazing ear. I remember one time we were in Dublin cathedral and a girl was playing a red spinet, a kind of medieval harspichord; she was practising for a concert later that evening with James Galway. Paul listened for a while, then cocked his head to one side, listened some more and said to the girl, ‘lovely but its out of tune. That always happens when you move them.’ The girl who was sitting playing beatifically stopped suddenly whilst her teacher’s jaw hit the floor. We shuffled off, the vaguest hint of a smile playing at the edge of Paul’s lips.

Music Man!!!

Paul can come over like the Know-it-all Caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland at times but he is actually very gentle, humble and caring. It’s just that in argument or discussion he’s ruthless and relentless. Unless you have marshalled your facts beware. Do your homework or he’ll wipe the floor with you. I should have listened to him in 2001 when I suggested we organise a ball for our psychology confreres. Of the 200 who had started 80 had finished. There were three people who got firsts and they were all in Our Gang. Paul, me and Sal. Originally I had booked a large suite at the Wolverhampton Grand Hotel, Point 8, to accommodate the many people from all three years who said they’d come. On the strength of these promises I made my pitch. I was liable for the full cost but I hadn’t read the small print like Paul. When people failed to materialise I pushed ahead. The Evil Manager at the Grand downsized the hall but I had signed a contract and had to pay. Pulling out all of the stops and with the help of Our Gang we pulled it off. None Uni friends came, people I’d given free drinks to when I was a barman helped. Keith Clarkson towed Paul’s friend Darren’s portable disco to the venue. Al Rowe and his then girlfriend came and one or two staff members popped their heads round the door, had a drink and then departed. I lost £200 but a week later got a bonus from Staffordshire County Council for whom I worked at the time. My one and only bonus. I was and am a fool but without risks and a little angelic help life can be very dull.  

Risk

The City is a time machine, a TARDIS, that flips you from timezone to time zone, from memory to memory. After the Park Paul and I walk past the Diamond Banqueting Suite, on Skinner street, on our way back to our final destination. It’s a glass-fronted Modernist Façade. Cheesy and blockish, grey and black, green and cream. It’s sweet inside but we ain’t going in. We swing round past the House of Fraser and I recall walking these streets with my then girlfriend in 2002 when the World cup was on. People in the pubs would casually toss pint glasses out of upstairs windows at us. They would explode like glass grenades and only luck prevented serious injury. Back past the Uni and into the underpass, where we shot a video for a group project we roll, straight up to the steps of Molineux Stadium. Here  the Wolverhampton Wanderers Play their Home matches.  When the Bloody Tower was in operation you could see into the ground. But those days are long gone. Paul poses in front of Billy Wright, a local hero like Goldie. We pay our respects, then leave.

Yes, the City is a time machine. From Mozza in 88, to Uni in 98, to the World Cup in 2002, to Wulfrun College in 2006, to my Masters from 2008-10, to the walk in 2015 to this write up in 2019. Glad I left it to reflect on my experience of the city and on my 20-year friendship with Paul.

As Musician and Producer he is painstaking and thorough, both a creator and a technician, and he always gives anything he does a high degree of polish. I usually show up just before a show and lay out my shopping list. Paul will ask how long we have and and I’ll say, four weeks or in the worst case scenario two weeks.  Usually at that point he just goes quiet. Then out of the silence comes his voice. “Put the kettle on Errol.” He calls me that referencing Roland Rat’s sidekick Errol the Gerbil and off I scurry to make his tea. He cannot do anything without tea. It is his drug of choice and without it, he just don’t function.

Thanks for everything mate. You’re the best!

Tardis

The City is a time machine, a TARDIS, that flips you from timezone to time zone, from memory to memory. After the Park Paul and I walk past the Diamond Banqueting Suite, on Skinner street, on our way back to our final destination. It’s a glass-fronted Modernist Façade. Cheesy and blockish, grey and black, green and cream. It’s sweet inside but we ain’t going in. We swing round past the House of Fraser and I recall walking these streets with my then girlfriend in 2002 when the World cup was on. People in the pubs would casually toss pint glasses out of upstairs windows at us. They would explode like glass grenades and only luck prevented serious injury. Back past the Uni and into the underpass, where we shot a video for a group project we roll, straight up to the steps of Molineux Stadium. Here  the Wolverhampton Wanderers Play their Home matches.  When the Bloody Tower was in operation you could see into the ground. But those days are long gone. Paul poses in front of Billy Wright, a local hero like Goldie. We pay our respects, then leave.

Yes, the City is a time machine. From Mozza in 88, to Uni in 98, to the World Cup in 2002, to Wulfrun College in 2006, to my Masters from 2008-10, to the walk in 2015 to this write up in 2019. Glad I left it to reflect on my experience of the city and on my 20-year friendship with Paul.

As Musician and Producer he is painstaking and thorough, both a creator and a technician, and he always gives anything he does a high degree of polish. I usually show up just before a show and lay out my shopping list. Paul will ask how long we have and and I’ll say, four weeks or in the worst case scenario two weeks.  Usually at that point he just goes quiet. Then out of the silence comes his voice. “Put the kettle on Errol.” He calls me that referencing Roland Rat’s sidekick Errol the Gerbil and off I scurry to make his tea. He cannot do anything without tea. It is his drug of choice and without it, he just don’t function.

Thanks for everything mate. You’re the best!