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Congratulations, Birmingham. You’ve finally washed your transport knickers Every time a train station is revamped, we lose a place to end a grim relationship
(35 minutes later)
Break-ups kill parks. And cafes. They lay waste to restaurants, pollute rivers; I’ve known break-ups that can destroy a whole city. When you break up with someone – lay your shrivelled heart across their knees before kicking them in the chest by saying you no longer feel the same – you never, ever want to return to the scene of the crime. Break up in a wood, and you will never again walk through that wood; break up in a bar and you will never again drink in that bar.Break-ups kill parks. And cafes. They lay waste to restaurants, pollute rivers; I’ve known break-ups that can destroy a whole city. When you break up with someone – lay your shrivelled heart across their knees before kicking them in the chest by saying you no longer feel the same – you never, ever want to return to the scene of the crime. Break up in a wood, and you will never again walk through that wood; break up in a bar and you will never again drink in that bar.
After one particularly painful break-up in a much-loved leatherette cafe in Leeds, I had a revelation; we need better break-up venues. Specially designated, government-funded, municipal spaces where tear-weary, lustless couples can go to untie the knot.After one particularly painful break-up in a much-loved leatherette cafe in Leeds, I had a revelation; we need better break-up venues. Specially designated, government-funded, municipal spaces where tear-weary, lustless couples can go to untie the knot.
They’d be awful, of course. They would be empty, save for a couple of moulded-plastic office chairs, a scratchy grey nylon carpet, an MDF table slowly releasing carcinogenic glue fumes into the air, no windows, no pictures. They would be faceless, unmemorable and utterly unlovely. But that would be the point – they would be somewhere you’d have never returned to willingly anyway. You might have to go back, but they would be immune to bad association; ruined already. Which is when I had my second epiphany: Birmingham New Street Station.They’d be awful, of course. They would be empty, save for a couple of moulded-plastic office chairs, a scratchy grey nylon carpet, an MDF table slowly releasing carcinogenic glue fumes into the air, no windows, no pictures. They would be faceless, unmemorable and utterly unlovely. But that would be the point – they would be somewhere you’d have never returned to willingly anyway. You might have to go back, but they would be immune to bad association; ruined already. Which is when I had my second epiphany: Birmingham New Street Station.
Related: New Birmingham New Street? 'Amazing. Just amazing'Related: New Birmingham New Street? 'Amazing. Just amazing'
Birmingham New Street station was, for years, the grimmest station in Britain. Wind-bitingly grim. Pigeon-killingly grim. It was where lightbulbs and fresh milk went to die. It was freezing, subterranean, dingy, always full of disgruntled and delayed travellers, bewildering, expensive and had more stairs than an Escher painting. It was awful. Even the Wetherspoons on the concourse was awful – one evening, looking for some tap water, I wandered in there to find a man having an animated argument with the wallpaper while another cried, silently, into his cardigan.Birmingham New Street station was, for years, the grimmest station in Britain. Wind-bitingly grim. Pigeon-killingly grim. It was where lightbulbs and fresh milk went to die. It was freezing, subterranean, dingy, always full of disgruntled and delayed travellers, bewildering, expensive and had more stairs than an Escher painting. It was awful. Even the Wetherspoons on the concourse was awful – one evening, looking for some tap water, I wandered in there to find a man having an animated argument with the wallpaper while another cried, silently, into his cardigan.
Arguably, I didn’t see Birmingham New Street in its best light – always running for my connection laden with laundry bags to catch the last, cheapest, train home after an unheated term at university. Or making a lump-throated trip back to London after visiting my grandmother in her unfamiliar care home. Even those departures north after a warehouse party in Birmingham were usually marred by a supersonic cider-and-cherryade hangover. But even then, New Street had a special flavour of despair all of its own. Birmingham Snow Hill was a Victorian dream by comparison; Birmingham Moor Street a 60s sci-fi stage set; Birmingham International a perfect holiday of wood-veneer toilets and Upper Crust baguettes.Arguably, I didn’t see Birmingham New Street in its best light – always running for my connection laden with laundry bags to catch the last, cheapest, train home after an unheated term at university. Or making a lump-throated trip back to London after visiting my grandmother in her unfamiliar care home. Even those departures north after a warehouse party in Birmingham were usually marred by a supersonic cider-and-cherryade hangover. But even then, New Street had a special flavour of despair all of its own. Birmingham Snow Hill was a Victorian dream by comparison; Birmingham Moor Street a 60s sci-fi stage set; Birmingham International a perfect holiday of wood-veneer toilets and Upper Crust baguettes.
Where better, I thought, to launch a break-up empire? When the great creaking ship of your relationship crashed against the rocks of disinterest, betrayal, fatigue, distance or dishonour you could apply to me for a meeting at platform 8 of Birmingham New Street station. I would then send out anonymous meeting requests to both parties; you would meet at the designated time and thrash out your unhappiness, safe in the knowledge that at least this unpleasantness wasn’t going to stop you ever going back to your local pub or much-loved gallery. It was a safe space, if one stiff with misery, mourning and misanthropy.Where better, I thought, to launch a break-up empire? When the great creaking ship of your relationship crashed against the rocks of disinterest, betrayal, fatigue, distance or dishonour you could apply to me for a meeting at platform 8 of Birmingham New Street station. I would then send out anonymous meeting requests to both parties; you would meet at the designated time and thrash out your unhappiness, safe in the knowledge that at least this unpleasantness wasn’t going to stop you ever going back to your local pub or much-loved gallery. It was a safe space, if one stiff with misery, mourning and misanthropy.
It’s not the Dante-esque circle of rail delays that couldn’t even be made worse by heartacheIt’s not the Dante-esque circle of rail delays that couldn’t even be made worse by heartache
But all that’s gone now. Suddenly, Birmingham New Street station is fine. It’s a cut-price, West Midlands outpost of the Guggenheim. Sure, the roof looks like a line drawing of a sad and screaming stingray and it probably still smells of Blu-roll. But it’s nothing like its former unglory. This is the sort of place you might willingly put your rucksack on the floor; somewhere to actually have a snog.But all that’s gone now. Suddenly, Birmingham New Street station is fine. It’s a cut-price, West Midlands outpost of the Guggenheim. Sure, the roof looks like a line drawing of a sad and screaming stingray and it probably still smells of Blu-roll. But it’s nothing like its former unglory. This is the sort of place you might willingly put your rucksack on the floor; somewhere to actually have a snog.
So I’ll have to look elsewhere. I have some ideas, of course. A mezzanine-level meeting room above the Whistlestop in Preston would be high on the list, after I spent half an hour weeping into a cold pot of granola because I’d been rejected by a man with ginger armpit hair. Or, perhaps, we could find a nice little storage cupboard in Crewe to convert for the purpose. I enjoyed a pretty good break-up outside the Sainsbury’s in Euston station recently.So I’ll have to look elsewhere. I have some ideas, of course. A mezzanine-level meeting room above the Whistlestop in Preston would be high on the list, after I spent half an hour weeping into a cold pot of granola because I’d been rejected by a man with ginger armpit hair. Or, perhaps, we could find a nice little storage cupboard in Crewe to convert for the purpose. I enjoyed a pretty good break-up outside the Sainsbury’s in Euston station recently.
In fact, if things go well – and frankly, how could they not – we could expand, buy up the entire chain of Aberdeen Angus Steak Houses and turn them over to break-up venues. We wouldn’t have to change a thing – they’re perfect already.In fact, if things go well – and frankly, how could they not – we could expand, buy up the entire chain of Aberdeen Angus Steak Houses and turn them over to break-up venues. We wouldn’t have to change a thing – they’re perfect already.
So congratulations Birmingham. I’m glad you’ve finally got round to giving your transport knickers a wash. It was about time. And don’t worry about me – I’ll be fine. Things have changed. We both feel different. We’ve been moving apart. I understand. I wish you the best. And hey, it was grim while it lasted.So congratulations Birmingham. I’m glad you’ve finally got round to giving your transport knickers a wash. It was about time. And don’t worry about me – I’ll be fine. Things have changed. We both feel different. We’ve been moving apart. I understand. I wish you the best. And hey, it was grim while it lasted.