WHERE THE POETRY BEGAN FOR THE MOWDOG: THE TWO HANDS...

The Two Hands: Where the Rhymes Began...

It was where it all began, I guess.

Inside the Two Hands:

A clone of The Harlequin, The Trident, The Packhorse, 

The Heathway and The Cheshire Cat;

All Shard End locals, for beer, if not grand

And those pubs all looked much the same,

Catering for my council estate, 

Built near the meandering River Cole,

Its Parish Church plain and undistinguished, on once wooded land...

It was where I began scribbling, I recall,

Sat in the Two Hands’ heat;

A drink to waste time, alone, self-aware.

Then the quiet, hunched clientele began to fascinate 

And I speculated upon why one couple’s hands would not meet...

Yet those regulars were all dulled to the norm,

Immersed in their patterns of repetition,

Within the sounds of the rippling River Cole,

Its slatted wooden bridge rattling to 

intermittent vehicles’ beat...

It was how I became enthralled, I know,

Hidden in a corner of the Two Hands’ gloom:

Verses written, head down, nervous, 

perspiring;

For I wondered what the common smoker, the grey veterans and the silent couple

Returned home to, and for them what fate would loom...

Then I slipped away my scrawls and vanished into the night,

Thrilled by the watching, the contemplation,

In the valley of the often fetid River Cole,

Whose cold, ancient stench pervaded my quiet bedroom... 

Pete Ray

I scribbled my first real verses in the Two Hands pub, Kitsland Road, Shard End, Birmingham. I am certain that I only went into the place once, when I had travelled home from college in Reading to watch Aston Villa play a Wednesday evening game. 

My parents were on holiday, Villa were at home again on the Saturday and I decided to try to fool the watching neighbours and make it look like I had returned to college on the Thursday. 

My dad was evil about me missing classes and I wanted to avoid the unpleasantness...

I left the house noisily on the day after the match, travelled by ‘bus into the city centre and watched a film at a cinema. I then walked around the town until darkness fell and caught a ‘bus back to Shard End, spending an hour or two in the ‘Two Hands’, where the rather dull drinkers ‘forced me’ to want write about them. I simply couldn’t help it. 

I stole home under the cover of darkness and went to bed. I kept quiet until around 4pm on the Friday and then became noisy, as if I had just arrived home again from college... 

Ridiculous. 

Totally ridiculous.

The original poem was chucked away many years ago but I do remember its subjects: an unloving couple, an elderly pair of wedded locals and a smoker...

I wanted this incident on record...