Hometown Blues

Can you honestly say you love your hometown? The one where you were born? Do you? And do you still live there? 

I rarely meet people in this country who can answer yes to any, let alone all, of those questions. Even here in Lewes, where the Bonfire Societies represent the most loyal local protectionists you are ever like to meet, the natives I encounter generally have an ambiguous relationship with their hometown, albeit because of the influx of DFL (Down From London) interlopers and a growing uneasiness at the incoming tide of gentrification and lack of ‘proper shops’. 

I, too, am an interloper here, having migrated from the Midlands. And, thanks, in part -  I believe - to the diversity of regional accents in the media these days, I no longer have to brace myself for a tirade of derision when I reveal this information. 

That wasn’t always the case. 

The first thing I learned at university was that the Brummie (Birmingham) accent - my accent - was to be ridiculed and derided at every opportunity. During this era of Liverpool super-soap Brookside and the ‘Madchester’ music scene, the Northerners received a free pass on accent bullying, and it was left to us Midlanders to accept that not only did our accent make us sound like lobotomised chimps (one would gather from the obligatory effort at imitating Black Country/Brummie which was deemed an appropriate conversation gambit), but our cities (Birmingham, Wolverhampton, Coventry etc.) were the crappest in the country, lacking culture, and beauty (in fact, anything of interest) and were an abomination to the very concept of architecture and civil engineering. 

Naturally, that’s not quite the memory I have. And despite Birmingham’s magnificent recent renaissance with its blitz on the Bullring, a sexy Selfridges and the awesome Central Library building, I miss its dirty-ugly past, its grunginess, the stained concrete and tatty edges. I remember with fondness the rotting veg stink of the Bullring as I flitted from pub to pub, the massive unapologetic slabs of 60s neo-brutalism which housed bars and night clubs rammed with rockabillies, goths, Chicago house DJs or be-fringed, cardigan-swinging indie chicks.  That’s the Midlands I remember - rich with history, art, music and street fashion. 

Its history is part of my family’s story. Escaping the collapse of Northampton’s rural economy, its steam-belching railway and booming factories provided desperately needed jobs. The magnificently dark, dirty, industrial landscape of this era provides the backdrop for the BBC’s hit drama Peaky Blinders. Never have the grimy back-to-backs of Small Heath been so touched with glamour, the deafening foundries of Deritend so dramatic…

But just hold on there a moment.

I’m guessing that from what I’ve written so far, you might imagine that I hold my hometown dear. Trouble is, I didn’t actually live in Birmingham. I lived and was born in Sutton Coldfield, a half-hour bus ride away. So, the question is, do I feel the same affection and nostalgia for Sutton Coldfield? 

Absolutely not. 

I’ve attempted to rein in the contempt that has taken hold from the time of my teens. Surely, every place has a history, a personality, it’s not merely a bland suburban repository for football players and bigots obsessed with lawns, cars and property prices. Oh come, friendly bombs, fall on Sutton …No, Val, that’s not fair. 

But in even in Bradshaw’s travel guide of 1863, it’s described as “a place of no very particular note, beyond an occaisional pic-nic [sic] excursion”. 

My memories,  from over a century later, struggle to pick out anything of ‘particular note’ and certainly no picnics. However, I can pinpoint my dislike of suburban estates from this time. As a child in the relatively car-free 70s, the quiet, tree-lined streets provided the perfect arena for ambitious bike stunts, sledging and unsupervised excursions to friends’ houses. But, as I grew older, I would experience a post-apocalyptic horror at walking through deserted suburban streets (particularly around 2pm during the week) with their complete dearth of activity, blank windows and trimmed hedges concealing any signs of life. 

I tried to make a go of it socially, but my over-riding memory of a Sutton Coldfield night club is, “If this is what all nightlife is like, I will become a hermit; if this is what all men are like, I think I must be gay.” I was very glad to have Birmingham prove me wrong on both counts. 

I think you can gather why I don’t live in Sutton Coldfield anymore, but why not Birmingham?

Like most people, it’s a mixture of luck and choice, jobs and relationships. And like many people in my age group, I’ve grown out of city life. Brighton’s there if I want it, but it’s nice to leave it behind (and not for suburbia).

It’s true that I travel through places and I wonder why anyone would willingly live there (I am not naming names), but it’s not for me to question their choices. And so many people have no choice, such as those who face being shipped off to some random place because the land they currently occupy is too valuable an opportunity for development. 

I’m lucky enough to have a choice where I live, even if that choice is tempered by my family’s needs and wants. But, ultimately, I’ve changed, and so has Birmingham. I feel a loyalty to it because it was my stomping ground during a significant part of my life, and I had a brilliant time. 

It pisses me off when people mock the Midlands. Usually they have never even been there. Sarcasm may be labelled the lowest form of wit, but in fact laughing at places you’ve never been, and regional accents that are different to your own is scraping the barrel of humour. But, if that makes you feel better about where you live …laugh on.