This is the hour.

Greetings true believers (to quote Stan Lee).

It's been a while since my last post. I'd like to say that I've been too busy working on a secret project, but that would be untrue. The truth is that after moving house I was infected with a summer lethargy. But now I'm back, hopefully for more regular posts, and possibly one or two sister-blogs which I have in the mental pipeline.

For now though, gentle reader, let me take you back one week. After an evenings work I am in The Stile, my unbelievably local local, drinking a couple of beers and playing a bit of pool. Vicky is working behind the bar. In the other room aging musos bash out some covers on acoustic guitars. Sunday night is open mic night.

Fast forward to the end of the night, Faye, Tony and I are drinking in the front bar. Vicky is still working, and talking to one of the bearded muscians. I am beckoned. We discuss my being a bass player, and by the end of the conversation I have agreed to book the next sunday off work and come along to the open mic. The harmonica player stands in the doorway and has a nosebleed.

So, here I am. Due to arive at the pub in under an hour for half a pint of dutch courage. Unfortunately my summer lethargy extended into what I jokingly call my practice routine. I've been working to make up for it this week but for some reason I can only remember three songs well enough to feel nearly comfortable playing them in public. And one of those is seven minutes long and requires a saxophonist.

I thought it wise to prepare myself for public humiliation. Friday was Faye's Twenty-first. Sort of. It was also kareoke night at the style. If I can do that in front of people, I'm sure I can fumble my may through Eight Days a Week and Sweet Home Chicago.

Apologise for the weird typography. Blogger seems to have no problem switching to bold or italics, but doesn't appear to like changing back again.

Tea break over. Toodle pip.

Sweet Home Wolverhampton

For the past week and a half I've been settling into the new house and something almost resembling adulthood. I write this having just returned from Asda with freshly purchased draining board and cutlery draw trays.

Since my last post I've done a few things which I feel now qualify me to describe the local area: I've made several trips to Asda, seen the park on an event day, and, crucially, I've visited the pub. The area in question is, roughly speaking, Whitmore Reans (which even, sort of, has its own online newspaper). Our road, Fawdry Street, is one of several roads in the area which don't really lead anywhere, which is perhaps why the pub at the end of the road seems to be doing so well. It's the sort of pub which looks like it could be one of the main settings in a soap, and like almost all pubs in Wolverhampton it's linked to the Banks brewery. The conversation comes in a clattering of Polish and Yam Yam. The Banks and the curry are good, the current guest ale, Boondogle, tastes like vinegar. There is a bowling green at the back, half of the clientele look as if their preferred method of transport is a chopper or a truck, and Fridays and Saturdays are karaoke nights. Like a pub should be, it provides an interesting cross section of the community.

The nearest main road is the Stavely road, which has a few shops. This is our main conduit to Asda. In the other direction is a building with a sign painted on the side which reads 'Jazz's Barbers', in big, blue letters, accompanied a picture of a man who from a distance looks like Charlie Patton, but as you get closer, looks increasingly like a dodgy eighties hairdresser's model.

We visited the local park at the time of the Wolverhampton City Fair, which seemed to mainly involve people firing cannons, driving motorbikes or monster trucks, and setting themselves on fire.

Visit the Black Country, heart of the Wild West Midlands (or have I just been playing too much Red Dead Redemption)

Familiar Things in Unfamiliar Places.

I am no longer nearly homeless. As of yesterday I have been a resident of Fawdry Street, Wolverhampton. Vicky and I still have a little unpacking to do, but now my books are on a shelf (albeit a rather disorganized one, and having to compete for space with a myriad of DVDs and Xbox games) and I've had a cup of tea, it's starting to feel like home. And until the arrival of Faye (one of Vicky's forensics buddies) some time in August, and Hannah and Chris in early September, we have the house to ourselves.

So, here we sit awaiting the full time results of the Ghana vs Uruguay match. Vicky tests the internet with some heavy duty Call of Duty, and I contemplate a productive summer of writing and editing.

In the meantime though, we have more mundane things to worry about, like working out what's wrong with the washing machine door, the alarming rate of gas consumption, how to live on almost no money, and a living room carpet so filthy that it warrants foot washing of biblical proportions. Where's the messiah when you need him...

We've decided to wear slippers for the foreseeable future.

Homeless...

...Sort of. As of Monday evening, I will be crashing on my nan's sofa until I can move into me and Vicky's (and some others who will be joining later) student pad in Wolverhampton. Which is, I admit, quite a trek from Perry Barr, but it's far better if you want a decent ale. In the meantime my life is a flurry of books in boxes and mattresses on floors as I slowly dismantle the last ten years or so of my life.

Bring on the Black Country.

Some Complaints and a Challenge.

Wolverhampton is probably not in the running to be the next European city of culture. It's not a complete cultural wasteland, it has a pretty good art gallery , a decent theatre and some good live music venues. The local Waterstone's however is really letting the side down.

I've talked before about the Waterstone's in Birmingham. There are two of them in the city centre, the one in the beautiful old bank building and the one that's near the Pavilions, which has a larger than usual selection of poetry, drama, philosophy etc.

The Waterstone's in Wolverhampton on the other hand is a different matter, although this possibly says more about smaller Waterstone's stores than it does about Wolves. I went in looking for Waverley by Sir Walter Scott, which is on my reading list for Romantic Century. They didn't have it. In fact they didn't have anything at all by Walter Scott; the 'classics section' was only given one small section of shelves, and at least three of those were entirely taken up by Dickens. I like Dickens, but he could have some room for everyone else.

Of course, being me, I decided to explore the rest of the shop. It had no Scott, and no Byron, but it had four different books 'by' Jordan. I think that about sums up the situation. This shop had no room for one of the most famous poets ever, but could find room for the novels of a woman whose biggest claim to fame is having cartoon knockers, and whose only discernible talent is showing them off.

You may be wondering why I put the word 'by' in inverted comas like that. I once read (I think mainly out of morbid curiosity) an interview with Jordan in the Metro, in which she revealed her... method for writing novels. Basically, she comes up with the idea for a plot and then the novel is ghost written. To me this seems to be a similar process to celebrity endorsed perfumes or clothing lines, where you know that they had very little input and are more or less just a brand.

If Katie Price wants to defend herself from this statement, I suggest she gets in touch, and she can do so by way of a short story competition. All in favor say 'aye'.

Another Travelin' Story (or 'How Curriosity Almost Killed the Luke')

I'm sure that if anyone actually reads this they will be keen to point out that I haven't technically written any travelling stories on here (that is, if they care enough to make such allegations). This is, admittedly, true. The title actually refers to the fact that the events of this blog happened in a train station, while I was listening to Another Travelin' Song by Bright Eyes.

As I mentioned before, I was at a train station. To be more specific, I was at Wolverhampton train station, on my way to my girlfriend's halls of residence after a nine hour shift at work (at a cinema, in case you were wondering). It was around twenty to eleven. I was walking through the station's foyer area. It is much the same as the foyer area in many mid-sized modern stations. There are ticket booths, automatic ticket machines which give you a discount if you choose to travel with Virgin, a small branch of WH Smith's and a linoleum floor, patterned in nondescript shades of yellow and reddish-pink.

On this floor was a yellow cone to warn those passing through that it was wet, which incidentally, it wasn't. I barely noticed the cone as I walked past, more concerned with what I might eat when I get in than the possibility that I might slip and die at the train station. I had almost reached the red automatic doors when I heard a clattering noise. Not the train-like clatter of drums coming from my headphones, but the clatter of something falling over. I turned to see the wet floor sign sliding ironically across the linoleum. A quick look suggested the smirking young man with the gelled black hair was the most likely suspect. Minor distraction over, I turned back towards the doors.

'Yeah, I kicked it!'

This voice did not belong to the smirking youth. Again, I turned my head, this time to see a large, goatee-bearded, skin-headed man somewhere between his late thirties and mid forties. He looks as if he would probably play rugby with gorillas if rugby wasn't a posh nancy-boy's game, an prefers instead the more manly game of football hooliganism. Apparently he mistook my mild curiosity for disapproval. Smirk-boy is walking beside him, now struggling to stop himself from laughing.

Still not really interested, and at this stage not even entirely sure he was talking to me, I passed through the automatic doors. At this point he shouted again, and with the instinct of someone who has been shouted at many times (thanks to my years as a teenage rocker in Kingstanding) I knew instinctively that I was the intended target. The tone was threatening, but the actual words were obscured by my headphones. This, as I'm sure my tutor will point out, was a schoolboy error for an aspiring writer. Observation is the key to everything. If I was going to play heavily with poetic licence I would say that the words in the song at this point were 'I'll kick and scream or kneel and plead/ I'll fight like hell to hide that I've given up', but in truth I can't remember. It seems I've sacrificed part of a half decent anecdote to listen to a song which I wasn't even paying that much attention too. I digress.

I looked back at the man and made a shrugging gesture. One which I hoped would convey 'I don't really care if you kicked the cone, I just wanted to know what the noise was', but which I fear may have translated as 'you wanna go, I'm ready for you'.

I walked away from the train station with a vague feeling that I was being followed, but as far as I am aware the man and his smirking companion were actually just crossing the road behind me to get into one of the waiting black cabs.

Then I went to Asda, and saw Ainsley Harriot buying some things. Which will hopefully add some celebrity glitz to what has turned out to be a slightly rambling blog.