It was the height of last summer and we were on our way home from that lovely holiday in Devon. 'How about we call in and have a look at Wolverhampton on the way back?', Charlotte had said.
It was not as ridiculous a suggestion as it might sound. The post-industrial Black Country town may be the butt of many jokes- hell, even Brummies laugh at its supposed lack of sophistication- but this was the place where me and Charlotte first met, back in 1986, when we were Modern Language students at the Polytechnic. The idea was to take a detour off the motorway (well, Frankie would be due for a feed anyway) and have a look around the old place- you know, for old time's sake.
Mind you, it took a while for the nostalgia to kick in. For a start, we seemed to be approaching the town centre through leafy neighbourhoods that neither of us recognised at all. Perhaps this was unsurprising, given that we wouldn't have had a car in 1986, so our experience of the outlying districts (unless you count that time the head of Modern Languages invited us all to his grand house in the suburbs for a drunken garden party) was limited to the sort of low-rent districts that students lived in, and which were served by the buses up Stafford Road- places like Whitmore Reans, Bushbury, and, for the really adventurous among us, Tattenhall.
Once we got to the town centre, we reasoned, all the memories would come flooding back. Except we didn't recognise that either. There was a Tescos Extra where the Cherry Red record shop used to be, the 1960s concrete of the cinema and the Wulfrun shopping centre appeared to have been air-brushed from history altogether, and we couldn't get our bearings at all among all the shiny new plate-glass developments which had sprung up along the canalbanks. After several minutes of driving in the wrong lanes we alighted in the car-park of a church- converted, of course, into a Sainsbury's Local- and decamped to the cafe inside. We weren't feeling nostalgic at all at this point- just disoriented, and a little short-tempered. We looked balefully at each other over the supermarket cappucinos, thinking 'Whose idea was this for God's sake, to end our holiday going round and round the Wolvehampton Inner Ring Road?'. But we'd come a long way, so decided to have a walk around the block. And it was then that it happened- we took a left just past a startlingly futuristic looking tram-stop and found ourselves slap-bang in the middle of 1987.
We had stumbled across 'our' part of Wolverhampton- the streets surrounding the Polytechnic campus- and it seemed they had hardly changed at all. The quaint Victorian Art Gallery had survived, as had the fountains on the green leading up the side of St Peters Church- where back in our day, there had been talk of extending the steeple, so it could call itself a Cathedral and little Wolverhampton could become a city. In front of the church, the functional 1960s brick of the Students Union still gave out onto a paved area, heading down to the concrete subway leading to the football ground. On winter Saturday nights twenty years ago we would stand for hours on this pavement, swigging from cans of Red Stripe secreted in the pockets of our raggedy Oxfam coats and waiting to pay £2 to get into the Poly disco (which was really 2 discos- the 'indie' one in Mandelas, where me and my crowd would dance to the Smiths, and the 'chart' one in Bikos where Charlotte's lot would sway to Rick Astley and Kylie Minogue). Now on a Sunday afternoon we stood and watched baby Frank toddling around, managing two or three steps before falling forward onto his hands- quite oblivious to the waves of overpowering nostalgia crashing over us as the mid-summer sun blazed down.
It was actually too much to bear, so we set off back in the direction of the Fiat Punto which would take us back to the year 2005. We passed up the alleyway in front of the George pub, which had, sometime in the last 20 years, grown a beer-garden and been rebranded as something preposterous, like 'Mac's' or 'The Varsity'. A kid emerged from its neon-lit interior- all floppy hair, ripped jeans, and awkward flailing arms. He squinted into the sunlight and stepped out into the street, narrowly avoiding being run over by a passing number 581 bus to New Invention- and for one especially queasy, heart-stopping moment, I really thought I was about to walk into my twenty-two-year-old self coming the other way.
What I would have said to myself I really don't know. Probably something like 'Don't fret so much bonny lad- look, it's going to turn out all right in the end- you're going to get married to beautiful Charlotte from BAML and have this tiny baby here'. Or maybe just 'Get five pounds on a double, son- Labour to sweep to power on a landslide, and Wigan Athletic to reach the Premiership. And hey- get your bloody hair cut while you're about it, you slovenly bastard'.
But I didn't say anything. For a start, the kid coming the other way wasn't really a twenty-two year old version of me at all- that would be ridiculous. And anyway, I was too busy with all the bittersweet flashbacks that were washing over me. Walking down Stafford Road to college, past the Polish Church and the Gas Board workers who always seemed to be on strike. Walking back home along the canal, and getting followed home by a stray dog, or chased round the back of the 147 Snooker Club by scary teenagers from the makeshift Travellers' camp by the rubbish dump. Queuing to get into the Students Union, queuing to pick up our raggedy Oxfam coats from the cloakroom at the end, and queuing for a saveloy and chips to eat on the way home. Queuing up all night for tickets to see Stevie Bull's Wolves at Wembley, then climbing on the horse-statue at the top of Market Street for a view of the cup being paraded on an open-top bus.
It always seemed to be drizzling in these flashbacks. The people with me came and went- but there was one fellow- made up just like me, in a floppy fringe, a Wedding Present t-shirt and an Oxfam coat, who was always there. His name was Anthony.
(to be continued)
What a gripping first chapter. I can't wait for the next bit...keep writing.
Posted by: Ma Baker | May 17, 2006 at 08:56 PM
It's not the most picturesque of places, is it? And I say that as someone who eventually took Brum to his heart...
Part of the reason is probably football. I can recall being in Wolverhampton on no fewer than four occasions for football matches about which I cared passionately. First of all I watched on the telly as we lost at home to Arsenal in 2001/2002, blowing our title chances. Then I was in the ground when Wolves beat us 3-2 in the FA Cup - and in the Wolves end too. Then I was there before seeing Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds on the day we were thrashed 4-1 at home by Fulham. And last but not least, Varsity was the pub where I watched England get humbled 1-0 by Northern Ireland (it's your common-or-garden studenty pub, incidentally - characterless). All of which means I'm rather reluctant to look favourably on the place...
That said, Nick Cave was tremendous, and we also saw Low on superb form there last February.
I guess it's just one of those formative years things, isn't it? Nottingham isn't the most immediately attractive of cities, but I'll always visit my alma mater with fond memories and feel a little bristle of irritation if anyone has the temerity to slag it off.
Look forward to the next installment...
Posted by: Ben | May 19, 2006 at 01:43 PM
I knew about your Brum connections of course Ben, but had no idea you were so familiar with my alma mater... as for that Varsity pub, I'm surprised to learn I had remembered the name right- I really just picked something likely-sounding out of the air there. Seems the sun and nostalgia hadn't gotten to me quite as much as I thought...
Second instalment of this Black Country tale (it might be the final one, or I might divide the story into three parts) next week.
Posted by: jonathan | May 19, 2006 at 01:57 PM
I remember going there once or twice.
Nostalgia is not the same as it used to be.
Posted by: Nexus John | May 19, 2006 at 10:31 PM
ooooh, next installment please! I suspect this tale is going to take a spiky and ill-mannered turn...
Posted by: abby | May 22, 2006 at 11:35 PM
quite right Abby- go to the top of the class! Second instalment up as we speak...
Posted by: jonathan | May 23, 2006 at 07:27 AM