Tag: Selly Oak

Sphinx Kitchen, Selly Oak

Kebab 143:

The signage for Sphinx went up about a year and a half ago and it appeared to be open, briefly, last spring then closed for the Summer break (and, as it turned out, all fall and the Christmas break). But, scanning the storefronts for a quick tasty bite for lunch I noticed it was open and dashed in to get a quick meal.

Okay, there was nothing quick about it (these guys don’t seem to be in a hurry about anything) but I got a skewer each of lamb cubes and lamb kofta on some spiced rice with a bit of salad and freshly made Egyptian flat bread and all of it was outstanding. If I get lucky and they are open when I pass by again, I will have the much more reasonably priced shawarma which, hopefully, sits as lightly as this feast did.

Greek House, Selly Oak

Kebab #127 was a gyros wrap from the Greek House which, inexplicably, is always overrun with Turkish blokes (so much so that I snagged the street view photo from Bing rather than have to deal with the guys).

I truly could have this two meals per day for a year without complaint.

St Mary’s Church Selly Oak TP 19616 Plus a Cut Mark on the Buttress

The car park to St Mary’s is long and tree lined and the tree tops sort of frame the church spire, and intersectional Tiangulation Point (#19616). Looks like good use is made of the car park at least one day per year:

The grounds are lovely. “The space whereon thou standest is Holy Ground. It is also sacred to the dead whose bodies rest here. Try and speak and act reverently in it. It is a sanctuary for birds. Help to keep it and cherish the flowers. This is God’s Acre.”

The Cut Mark is on the NW buttress. Something primordial in me wants to giggle at Cut Mark on Butt, but that would not be solemn.

Lapal Canal and California

On frequent runs past these large concrete abutments I’ve never given them a second thought.  On Sunday, a kid was using the one on the left like a sofa whilst snacking and watching traffic.  On my way back from the Asda nearby, I spotted the remains of the marble marker placed by the  Lapal Canal Trust.

Our area was once known as California for reasons that know one who claims to know seems to have strong evidence to back up.  It was definitely named for a pub but the pub’s name’s origin is in question.

The path of the canal, long since filled in, runs out to Selly Oak Park and is quite pleasant if you don’t mind the litter and the dodgy characters you encounter (so, there’s another reason this could be called California).

Lodge Hill Cemetery, Selly Oak

The day before we went to Lichfield, we passed through Lodge Hill Cemetery on our way to the garden centre in Bourneville.  There were an unusual number of intact angels (fewer missing hands or partial wings than we’ve come to expect).  I found Edith Hicklin’s stone, above, so beautifully carved I barely noticed the damage of the years.

Nearby, the child looking up to an angel was hard to pass by:

Some background: I get kind of a cheap thrill living so near the ancestral homes of 3 (BSA or “Birmingham Small Arms,” Triumph from down near Solihull, and Norton) of the 5 big motorcycles in my life (the other two being Vincent — from Stevenage — and the only non-English bike, Moto Guzzi).  A Triumph Bonneville I owned once tried to kill me the way legend has it the same model tried to kill Bob Dylan; and, I have had really life affirming if death defying rides on each of the others.

While Triumph has the cache of Dylan and Vincent gets a long passage in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Norton is saddled with the goofy memory of comic ukulele player George Formby.  Don’t let that put you off, though: our George was a keen competitor in TT racing circuits (and he volunteered during the war as a dispatch rider, all on trusty Nortons).

We wandered around quite a bit with no knowledge of who might be resident here.  As we headed out, I found this one other marker of note (hence the weird sidebar just now):

The Country Girl, Selly Oak, Birmingham

Pub #2217:

I ran home from work the other night, swinging past — and into — The Country Girl.  One of the bartendresses had the heaviest Irish accent I’ve heard this side of Cork, and I had to wonder WHICH country, girl?  I got a pint of X-Panda (lots of ale available, but all American style IPAs and blonds on this evening) and wandered off to solitude near the front window.

The name of this pub brought back a fond, old memory that can serve as something of a romantic story on this Valentine’s Day post.

A few months before me and Jackie got married (I guess this was early Autumn, 1985), we were tripping on some Dead Family acid in her crappy apartment.  Mine, next door, had a three inch hole in the floor at the radiator and we didn’t want to bother John, the building’s handyman who lived one floor below me.  This wasn’t courtesy; John, like every denizen of 1066 Piedmont, was a freak…he had an eye that eternally pointed off to the side (I think it was glass) and the only decorations in his flat were a photo of his dead mother in her casket and another of himself, in the same dress and casket.  We didn’t need a visitor like that so her space was definitely better.

Except that there was a bit of a cockroach problem in hers.  The hole in her floor was smaller (1066 was only $200 per month and right across from the Park, so of course it was a shithole), but was directly over another bedsit that housed Tiny, a professional wrestler and “security” contractor and two prostitutes who, unusual for the area, were genetically women and who, not so unusual, were not the tidiest homemakers.

So, with some John Prine on the record player (I remember clearly that it was Donald and Lydia), I was leaning on one side of the breakfast bar cutting a lime with Jax on the other pouring tequila.  She picked up the salt shaker and a roach that was hiding beneath it scuttled across the counter; we glanced at each other with our dilated eyes and without looking back at the bug I swung the knife to my left, impaling it on a peeling paint chip, the knife handle slowly rocking back-and-forth in the air above it.  Jackie licked the salt off her hand and threw back her shot with a slight grimace that morphed into an Illegal Smile and simply said, “city boy,” then sucked the pulp out of a piece of lime.

 

The S’Uck, Selly Oak, Birmingham

Pub #2210:

I went for a run on a cold Saturday recently with a stop at the lab to check on something that needed attention.  I was able to get away from this work break at 5 till 11 and thought I’d grab a beer at the S’Uck before looping home.  I arrived at 11:01 to find it darkened and shuttered.

No problem…I’d do my grocery shopping and return before doing a more straight-shot path back home.  Arriving back at the door at 11:35 to find it locked but with people milling about, I waited a few more minutes until the sweat ran cold; I ran, laden and beerless, home…bastards.

I gave it another go Friday after work and found it reeking of skunk (a good sign) and drowning in awful pop music (and the Lord taketh away); but, with three real ale taps (good); the only one that worked, however, had the Greene King IPA on it which I really didn’t fancy (d’oh!).

While the skinny kid pulled my lager I asked him the important question: “What time do you open on Saturday?”

“Usually noon.”  Of course.

This is how packed the place gets on Friday at Rush Hour.  Note the wry reference to all things S’Uck: