Let's move to the West Midlands town where glassblowing and Grebo came from! This week: Stourbridge

What’s it about? 

ON the fringes of, but thankfully not part of, the blighted industrial wasteland of the Black Country, Stourbridge has but two claims to fame – glassblowing and late 80s indie.

In the town’s pomp manufacturers like Tudor Crystal and Royal Brierley were on the town’s Crystal Mile, Stourbridge FC were nicknamed the Glassboys and every child in the place could knock out six thermometers on their way to school.

Now Asian sweatshops churn out glass, the arse has falled out of the market and every time the football team lose the local paper’s full of ‘Glassboys shattered’ headlines.

More recently Stourbridge spawned the Grebo scene, a forgotten indie movement led by Pop Will Eat Itself, The Wonder Stuff and Ned’s Atomic Dustbin. Tourists still come to the town for a photo outside The Mitre pub, where all three played their first gigs. It’s a shithole.

Any good points?

An eclectic mix of places to eat, from Ronnie’s House, an artisan independent pizza restaurant named after the owner’s cat, to Greek, Turkish and Bangladeshi places within the ring-road which encircles the town acting as a racetrack for boy racers who think they’re Lewis fucking Hamilton in a Citroen Saxo.

There’s also the delightful green space of Mary Stevens Park, where the lake is populated by many species of waterfowl dying of avian flu.

Wonderful landscapes?

Obviously not, it’s in the West fucking Midlands. Wychbury Hill on the outskirts of town enjoys wide-ranging views and is one of the 29 million locations in England claiming to be the final resting place of King Arthur. If true, the Once and Future King can gaze across traffic backing up on the A456 link road to Birmingham.

The obelisk which tops the hill bears the graffiti ‘Who put Bella in the Wych Elm’, a reference to the body of a woman found in a hollow tree nearby in 1943. The ritualistic nature of the corpse’s positioning points to the sacrificing of a witch and is likely to do with the weird villagers up the road in Kinver, of which more later.

Sandstone beauty spot Kinver Edge has houses carved into cliffs, endangered species such as adders, rare butterflies and ramblers still using those fucking massive OS maps, and wasp’s nests.

Hang out at…

The Mitre, where anyone remotely middle-aged will proudly boast of being on first name terms with Jonn from Ned’s, Clint from the Poppies or Miles from The Wonder Stuff. Most of them are lying.

The nearby village of Kinver is a traditional English country hamlet with quaint shops and pubs, historic oak-beamed buildings and a casual penchant for devil worship. It’s a delightful place to spend the day. Don’t be there when night falls.

Where to buy?

If you’re shitting money go to Ounty John Lane in Pedmore, where it’s so posh the houses don’t have numbers and you can rub shoulders with formerly famous footballers now reduced to plying their trade in Birmingham.

The town’s Old Quarter has impressively ornate architecture and a bohemian community of artists, activists, musicians and anyone else who smokes weed. To buy said weed the nearby towns of Lye and Brierley hill are rough as fuck. You won’t want to live there.

From the streets:

Roy Hobbs, aged 62, retired roofer: “Apparently Tolkien was inspired to create Mordor after visiting the area. I’m not fucking surprised.”

Wayne Hayes, aged 48, kitchen fitter: “I was a leading light in the Grebo scene. If only it hadn’t been, musically, perhaps the shittest scene of the 80s.”

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Boobs: which ones are best for sex?

MIND-BOGGLING as it is to contemplate, there is a greater variety of size, shape and flavour of boobs than there are of crisps. 

And, as in the snacks aisle of any two-floor Asda, it’s easy to be overwhelmed. Impossible to weigh the pros and cons of each because they’re all, from the Monster Munch to the Tyrrells, wonderful in their own way.

But, given that they’re largely for sex unless you breastfeed a child for a weird number of years, which is best in the bedroom? And why?


If you’ve got big hooters you have the licence to be lazy. Being sexy is a done deal – no need to worrying about the rest of your body or to bring acrobatics to the bedroom when your sweater meat does the work for you. Also – fun bonus – if you wish to murder your husband, you could suffocate him in your décolletage and claim it was a passionate accident.


Boobs unimpressive? Be thankful. Not only do you not have to pretend you enjoy being motorboated, you’ve got the motivation to get creative. Without bosomy laurels to rest on sex will only get hotter as you explore positions and moves those heifers could never handle. Or leave a padded bra on and exchange lack of sensation for pride when your fake cleavage enters your peripheral vision.


Skyward-faced nipples that beckon your lover forwards are the dream boob-shape for any man with half an erection. If you’re young or flukey enough to own a pair, flaunt your superiority: whip them out not only in the bedroom, but at the gym, on the beach, at Insulate Britain protests, striding down the aisle at your ex-boyfriend’s wedding.


Big boobs carry weight, especially when they’ve been ill-used by babies. There can be a tendency toward the pendulous. Women imagine blokes give a shit about this, forgetting they think with their cocks. If you’ve got enough tit to swing slap his hands on them. Now he’s too busy to interfere with your orgasm.

Any at all

Any boob will do. Few men are attractive enough to be picky. The presence of a bare chest of any shape, size or proportion is a win that will have the teenager who lives in their heart air-punching and telling their mates about it. Stop thinking they can act and reason when tits are exposed.