Saturday, 3 May 2014

The time that land forgot......

                                     Who is the mysterious blond boy on the bike?

Have you ever been to Wolverhampton? Urban sprawl competes with dreary desolation. Anyway, me and the war band thought it would be a giggle if we went for a visit just to sample the invigorating, befouled air. From Tipton you take the Dudley canal, turn left into the Birmingham canal before finally alighting in Wolverhampton town centre. A pall of despond overlays the whole area and rarely dissipates except when a strong maelstrom doth blow from the East.

We usually favour the ‘Sick Parrot’ Tavern. As ‘Happy hour’ extends from 5 to 10pm on Monday nights. The clientele are mostly dour, wastrels with thick waistlines. Copious amounts of mead are generally consumed and the rubicund Landlord usually provides a local wanton strumpet, who in the course of the evening removes her clothes to the sound of a hunting horn. In truth, most of the wenches he procures are not conventionally comely and would be well advised to keep their garments on and well secured at the front. The whole proceedings usually progresses to a brawl and culminates with the local Sheriff and his men descending upon the scene with cudgels and vehement curses. We usually get back to the long boat at about 3 in the morning and sleep off the night’s excesses with gusto born of acute alcohol poisoning.

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