Sutton Coldfield is a Balls of a Place – Part Deux

Sutton Coldfield is a Balls of a Place ‘Part Deux’ – That’s ‘Part Two’ for any plebs from Tamworth – and their daughters. And their daughter’s daughters…

This should be called ‘The Greasy Spoon Story” – and maybe it will be …. Sean insists I call it that so… tribute to Sean…


“The Greasy Spoon Story…”


Ps. A preamble of sorts…


I was reminded of Sutton Coldfield by this chap – who wants to sell copies of his book!! Well, feck it, why not, isn’t that what digital marketing is for?!

– And now I’m writing Part Two of the story – a real tale that happened only a decade ago in the noughties…I think, but I was very high for some of that period…




“The Greasy Spoon Story…”


Back when all of this took place, the wedding, and all that malarkey – well, you might’ve guessed that I drank quite a bit.  And you’ll know too, if you bothered your arse to read Part One of this very short saga that I used to be a bit prone to smoking the old weed.  I was often quite prone after smoking it too but fear not, I did build up a tolerance – which was one of my worser idiosyncrasies – and led to a few more! But enough of this digression…

Where was I … shite, that’s it, I was slagging off Tamworth and Sutton Coldfield – a pair of bizarre places made more bizarre by being so closely connected by a railway – but that’s not the point.

I think, and I have to be honest here, that I have hated each of these places ever since for different reasons:

  1. Tamworth – ‘plebs’ – one word answer.
  2. Sutton Cold Feel – ‘wankers’ – one word answer.
  3. My suit was still wet when I got off the train (see part one of this saga if point 3 makes no sense) – ‘complete wanker’ – two word answer.

You see, I wandered around both of those towns and found the people unsavoury – in a polemical way!  There was no mix of different types of people and I hated that – you know, if you could mix a couple of towns together and have a social consensus, great! But these 2 towns had already decided that the rich would live in one area and the poor would live in another (easily accessible) area to maintain the lifestyles of the rich.

I know this is the case in most major cities but I had never considered it beyond the few newspaper articles I had read by that stage in my life – it certainly had never seemed too obvious to me – until this point.

ENTER THE GREASY SPOON – as this is a low budget blog, Bruce Lee is unavailable…

And here we are now, reaching towards the point of this post:

My self and Sean found ourselves back in whatever hotel we had booked at around 4 in the morning, when all of the wedding festivities had subsided.  We were well on the piss and had staggering credentials to prove it.  I think that’s when I fell over, I can’t be sure.

I did fall over though – and that was it.  The hotel people sent us up the stairs to bed – even though we were grown-ups and all that.  Anyway, I was out like a light – gone, just like that.

I slept, then woke (don’t remember either too much) and I was turfed out of my hotel bed, initially by Sean bitching about the cost of leaving late – in fairness, he was fine, but I’m reviewing this story via the head-pounding fog of a hangover, much as I did at the time.

Shortly after Sean started trying to get me to move, a hotel member of staff decided to join in from the other side of the door.

Now, I should say, I am generally a very calm and collected type of person and I am usually terribly polite to strangers, especially those in the service industry (maybe because I’ve worked in retail and hostelry for years, on and off).  However, on that particular drunken and hungover morning I believe I may have used words to the effect of;

“would you ever fuck off for a few minutes you annoying cunt”.

Those words worked like a spell only the likes of Harry Potter could’ve conjured, and, soon enough, that particular member of the hotel staff had indeed fucked off – with their cuntishness presumably intact beneath their badly ironed hotel uniform and watered down Birmingham accent.

Now, normally, that would not be much of a problem – 2 big hairy arsed lads being fekked out of a hotel room – it’s nothing new.

However, me still being pished and a little bit ‘chopsy’ (gobby, overly verbal and enthused with swear words and sarcasm and also still very pished – I won’t labour the point no more) did lead to an unusual conversation at reception.

As the hotel staff members happily ushered us towards the pavement – a Sutton Coldfield pavement that is, one which, only hours later, would be happily crushed beneath the tiny and expensive heels of what I can only describe as “footballers’ tarts”; a pavement which would later be swept clean by some Tamworth daughter’s daughter’s father – assuming the local trains were on time, the following conversation took place:

ME: (approaching reception) Hi, is there a Greasy Spoon around here?

HER: A greasy spoon?

ME: Yes please – where’s the nearest Greasy Spoon?

HER: A greasy spoon??? (her, by now looking at me, looking at Sean, looking confused, looking at us both again in turn and then looking disgusted)

HER: So (she said ‘Sow’ here, Brummies and half Brummies always say ‘Sow’ instead of ‘So’ – and that’s ‘Sow’ as in ‘a pig’s mamma’ rather than ‘Sew’ from the Von Trapp family song)

…yow want a spoon…

(big paws/pause, like the ‘bear’ joke, looks at me and then at Sean in turn)

…with groise…

(Brummies can’t say ‘Grease’, ‘Greece’ or ‘Grace’ properly)

… on it?”

ME: (looking at Sean, mildly amused, and watching him watching me, also mildly amused)

…No, do you have a café around here where we can get sausage, egg and chips for breakfast?

HER: (looking very confused and turning back from the edge of the reception from which I can only assume she was heading into the kitchen to fetch a ‘greasy spoon’)

Err, I don’t know…I think there’s one down the road…

ME: OK, thank you for your help.

And that’s the end of the ‘Greasy Spoon Story’ – another fekked up conversation with a twat who thought I was a twat…and you know, I’ve a feeling we were both right to feel that way!



(Incidentally, in Birmingham, the people are unable to properly pronounce the word ‘FIN’ – they use ‘FEEN’ with a downward inflection in the middle, the twats!)

Ps. I’m from Coventry, so I would say that!

Pps. Sean’s from Coventry too – that makes my opinion official, I reckon.


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