retiredmartin

August 2025. Dorridge.

I left Mrs RM to finish her pint under the arches at Indian Brewery so I could catch the fast train to Dorridge, a 17 minute trip with gasping plug sockets the highlight.

Obviously I know of Dorridge; I’m a man, I know everywhere.

It’s basically a smart Solihull suburb, a Midland version of Petts Wood or Bramhall, the sort of place Birmingham City Reserve players live in (the first team have houses in Monaco and fly in for matches).

I couldn’t remember coming here ever, but just looking at the closest businesses to the station tells you all you need know;

Math tuition from Geoffrey, Tony and Christine’s Dancing School, the Community Choir, Knowle and Dorridge Cricket Club.

Ah yes, the cricket club, knew it was another Solihull sports bar in the GBG. There’s the sticker on the door,

Dozens of Madri-drinking youngsters around the pitch,

and dozens more Madri-drinking Old Boys watching The Hundred, cricket in its purest form.

A couple of interesting beers on the bar,

but I choose 6X (in authentic Doom Bar glass). It’s good (NBSS 3+), but does it taste like 6X ?

Tick’s a tick, and I’d left myself 16 minutes to walk the 15 minutes back to the station, in the (vain) hope of seeing something exciting on the way.

What I saw immediately on leaving the cricket club was this;

Hang on. Oh.

I knew the Guide newbie was something to do with hitting balls*. I’d just done the wrong one !

I reckoned I had minus 3 minutes to order and down a pint of Salopian

“Ah, Living the Dream” says the enthusiastic barmaid.

You could say that.

It was a pint too far.

*Turns out the cricket club next door is in the GBG, did it years ago and completely forgotten.