Another near-home-tramstop, Black Lack Metro was approached on rail from Dudley Street Guns Village (which was ticked off the list last night). More than half the trail was ‘new’ to the Rail Run Project and a few short segments new to the overall Brum run map (an update on it is due at year’s end).
Muddy out, today, but drier, warmer weather holds promise for happier trails.
Left a meet up to run over and pick up some hardware ate Toolstation in the cold rain and high winds. Rubbish weather but I covered a bit of the canal I haven’t run since Spring only to encounter the Sponge Bob Gangsta Pants mural.
Dudley Street Guns Village Metro is one of the closer ones to the house. I took a ride from there towards the town centre then headed on home.
“And I knocked them motherfuckers right on they asses, too.” — Jim the Mechanic
It’s alright. You should see it.
Boxing day, cold and rainy, saw the trams running as normal and me running as normal as I am capable. From the gym, I hiked to Dartmouth Street Metro and caught the first vehicle out which took me north to The Crescent Metro where my journey really begins.
No plan except to attack streets I don’t recognise and that don’t, even with my shit sense of direction, take me towards Aberystwyth, Liverpool, Leeds, or Manchester.
Home in just over an hour with a copy of The Observer and tucking into some pâté and wine to recover and with another station down, the training continues apace.
Fines and fees: £140.50, but…whatthehellitstheholidays!!!!!
Mileage: 30.6, a solid start to the new year with a full 8 months to train.
A couple of Christmas cards trickled in. The most thoroughly thought through one came from a lovely woman in LA. Ho, bleeding ho, indeed.
Let’s put this shit stain of a year behind us before next week, #52, is done. Merry Xmas, motherfuckers.
‘Twas the night before Xmas and we had just been to see “The Play What I Wrote.” It is difficult to slake a holiday thirst with the offerings at the bar in the Rep, so as we wandered toward our tram stop I kept an eye out for an open venue. But, most were closed and we were fast approaching St. Chad’s.
I tried the door of the Old Contemptibles and we finally found an innkeeper with his shingle still out. What a fantastic bar, but we arrived as last orders were being taken so we didn’t explore. We’ll be back.
Merry Christmas. My gift to you is nipping each of those cliches in the bud, albeit reluctantly.
It was alright. You should see it.
The Christmas food shopping done down at the Birmingham (Bull Ring) Market, I headed to Wolverhampton for more civilised shopping for the under tree items for the missus. I passed this grand building while zipping around the city centre and, finished with the unimaginative and highly practical gift purchases (sorry, J, one of those years), I doubled back to the Giffard Arms to fortify myself against the tram ride home.
I wasn’t expecting a BDSM club but those are always welcome. To be fair, it might not be one but if after a trip to ‘The Dark Room’ with a loved one or a bar pick up you find it to be otherwise, I will update this post.
Heavy metal on the juke was surprisingly good and interrupted by ZZ Top at least once, so, the vibe is consistent. Was tempted by the electronic DJ, if only to put on a GoGo’s collection on my way out but it seemed to be gaurded by some dudes who participate in the aforementioned scene. Next time. Or, some Cliff Richard. Y’know?
Hiking to the Sainsbury’s takes one past three pubs, the middle of which was my stop for the day: the Waggon and Horses (Grade II listed and architecturally significant pub interior, too).
The bar was packed and with no where to sit I sipped my porter watching myself in the bar mirror. This was very uncomfortable but I found some pot I had stashed away last Christmas and was stoned off my tits which might have enhanced the effect.
Watched a couple of horse races which seemed to be the big entertainment attraction. Overall a very cozy break.
“Can I get some chilli sauce?” I asked the youngster at the counter of the German Döner Kebab shop on Bull Street at Corporation.
“It’s in the bag.” Cool. I found a seat at the tram stop and opened the bag of disappointments and lies. There was no chilli sauce to provide even a modicum of moisture to this mass of paper thin and dried to the consistency of Walker’s crisps but meant to be representative — an avatar — of meat.
The chips weren’t bad, though. You can swerve around this location.
Endless British Pub Crawl (Part 3) 