I’m a criminal

In which I am chased by an irate French policeman.

Despite my angelic looks I am really a bad boy…I’ve had my share of run ins with the law. I’m hardcore criminal scum. I’m bloody gangster mate. 2460hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh1.

Me as Jean Valjean

Like all members of the underworld fraternity I think I should share my stories of villainy. What you are about to read could shatter your faith in the inherent goodness of humanity.

Let’s go back to a quiet Sunday afternoon on the dangerous streets of inner Bedworth. A small amount of litter is blowing outside of Stubbs’ toy shop, highlighting the plight of a town centre that hasn’t been cleaned since Friday. Continue reading “I’m a criminal”

Bedworth

In which I get all emotional over my home town bricks.

Within every crown there is a jewel that shines brighter than all the others, it stands out from all those around it and is what everyone remembers. Warwickshire has many towns that could be considered stand out, whether it is:

  • The hell-hole that is Nuneaton
  • The car parking nightmare of Leamington Spa
  • Stratford-upon- “nobody from here will ever make it big”-Avon

So by a process of elimination I’d go for Warwick, or Rugby (as one of the only places to give it’s name to a sport). Sitting around the side of the crown is one of the lesser jewels, a town nestled betwixt the mighty concrete of Coventry and the land of nom de plus authors.

The mighty town of Bedworth.

Behold, the glitz of the brown bricks (Source: Wikipedia)

Continue reading “Bedworth”

Childhood : The Bedworth Woolpack

In which I remember my old ‘legal’ local.

I don’t go out a lot now, a number of factors mean that I can’t be bothered to pop out to my local and have a few beers. Chief among these are the sheer hassle of trying to deal with the regular Sunday morning hangover I had while studying at college (which of course was technically illegal).

Most weekends we would head out to the pub we knew both served the cheapest drinks, and had the laxest policy on ID checks. At The Woolpack we would while away the hours until it was time to head home via the Chinese for a quick chips and curry sauce.

Now when I drive past my old haunt it looks a lot different. Where once my shoes stuck to the floor and you would be surrounded by a whiff of urea and bleach you now have this:

PIC-Woolpack houses

Continue reading “Childhood : The Bedworth Woolpack”