Oh My Aching Back :o(

I've suffered from this poorly aching back for three weeks now. Its just about sent me mental.

Its all my own fault of course. The pain is due to mechanical failure of my bones, who's epic job it has been, to support this colossal weight for all these years.

The bones are trapping the nerves as the muscles push and pull against each other, compensating, first on one side and then the other until the whole orchestra of pain is reaching the crescendo of Last Night Of The Proms.

So. This afternoon, I stood in just my badly fitting boxer shorts looking out the window while a bloke I'd only just met, looks me up and down, tut-tutting not quite to himself and muttering “Hmm. Yes. Looks like its mainly on the right hand side”.

I stood there in his surgery while he asked the usual questions about my diet and alcohol intake.

To be fair, he wasn't, or at least didn't seem to be too judgemental. I think I was as honest with him as I could have been.

“Do you take regular medication?”

“I should do, but I don't” I confessed. I should take Blood Pressure and Cholesterol tablets but without someone standing over me, making me take them, I just don't seem to get around to taking them.

“And Pain Relief? Ibuprofen?”

“No. Not Ibuprofen. Co-Codomol. Prefer Codeine”.

“Ah..... on prescription! So you've seen your doctor about this?”

“Erm... No. The Co-Codomol are someone elses”.

“So you are happy to take someone else's medication but not your own”

Thank you Doctor, for understanding how things are on planet Tarplee.

Nick Simpson is his name. Registered Osteopath. He's the guy who, this afternoon has cavorted with me on a couch. He wrestled me in a “Big Daddy” style, but a “Big Daddy” that has already convinced his opponent that you should help him out some, by first letting him put your legs and arms in curious scissor positions.

I think he had me in what they call a “half Nelson”. He bent before me with his one arm and shoulder holding my legs, his other arm and shoulder holding my shoulders, with his knee to my groin. Then he just sort of pulled me apart in the way you might try to open a giant 6ft Christmas Cracker if you were on your own. It took a few “rocks” back and forth first of all, perhaps while he lulled me into a false sense of security.

And so, sufficiently lulled and with my worry mingled with shyness that I'm butt naked, apart from my ill-fitting boxers and there's a man touching me almost everywhere, he cracked me.

The noise was considerably louder than any of us had expected. Even Nick looked a little frightened by the sound.

I had pains just about everywhere.

Both my legs had decided to display their dis-satisfaction, by refusing to allow Nick to bend them where he wanted them. Spasms of violent cramp had me almost kick the poor fella in the face.

I'm home now and I'm now in severe pain, as he said I would be. I'm to expect this to come and go over the next few days but not to panic. If I still feel like even Stephen Hawking could beat me up the stairs, this time next week, I'm to give him a call. In the meantime, he's off on his holidays. Skiing.

Thanks Nick. Have a nice trip. And Oh Yes. Be careful. Wouldn't want you hurting your back.

Godbye JB's – RIP

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Last night JB's closed its doors for the last time.

Its a tragedy for live music in the Midlands. Another venue, one with a great tradition and history, bites the dust.

I first went to JB's in around 1984. I had left sixth form and started work at Drainage Castings. The younger lads in the warehouse and offices often mentioned this “Night Club” called JB's.

I was, of course, keen to see all of the clubs in our area. It was sort of expected of us to go to Night Clubs – to pay over the odds for watered down pissy lager whilst wearing the very latest in faux-designerwear (bought for a couple of quid from Dudley Market). We'd stand around, near the bar, eyeing-up the girls in their faux-designerwear, hoping to get laid (without having to spend all our wages on said girl in faux-designerwear). As you can imagine, we had very little success in that area, but trying was important thing. The thrill of the chase. Oh, happy days.

One Friday night, Boz and I went to Dudley looking to get laid. We popped in one or two of the trendier pubs and found nothing more interesting than a Jukebox to amuse us. “Fancy trying JB's?” asked Boz.

“Yer..... Why not.... The guys at work go there from time to time. They might be there tonight. - Yer. Its worth a look I suppose.....” and off we headed in the direction of Pathfinders where we knew JB's to be lurking, hidden from the daylight, crouching, out of the way on someone else's car park.

Boz and I had gone to Dudley dressed in our usual uniform of faux-designerwear. Boz had really gone to town though, having been convinced that his “Italian Waiter” style suit with short double-breasted jacket and pleated trousers were what were required to get laid in Dudley that evening. I wasn't quite that trendily dressed and felt quite comfortable in my electric blue cardigan. We hoped we were adequately dressed for this “Night Club”. “Hope we can get in” we agreed to each other.

We paid our way into JB's, handing the money over to a giant bearded guy who looked like his previous job had been at Altamont. We were only just entering the place and already it was as dark as hell. The walls were black. There was little, if any light. I looked at Boz who was now biting his lower lip. Suddenly a door burst open and we were flooded with light and the familiar stench of the Gents. A guy wearing a mechanic's all-in-one overall walked out the Gents looking at us as if we were aliens. He must have been thinking “Feck me, look at these two, … what have they come as?”

He soon got bored with looking at us and headed through a door into the main room where the Bar ran the length of the back wall. We followed him tentatively. Tentative. That's exactly the word to describe us.

I went to the Bar and asked for a Cider for me and a Coke for Boz (who rarely drank alcohol then, and never does now, clever lad).

Firstly, I was a little surprised to receive the Coke as a can, without even the offer of a glass. In Night Clubs I was accustomed to glasses. Secondly, I was shocked out of my eyeballs to be given my Cider as a can. It was a can of SPECIAL VAT Cider. I looked along the bar at everyone else drinking happily from their cans. Okay, I thought. No big deal. Its a can. Its Okay. Relax. Nothings gonna hurt you.

I passed Boz his can of Coke and he looked at me frantically. “Er”.

My thoughts exactly Boz. Er.

“Do you think we're a little over-dressed mate?” He asked.

“Maybe a touch, yes”.

The music filling the place was very loud. I hadn't got a clue who it was or even what genre it was. It was just very loud. We stood around awkwardly trying not to look at anyone.

Eventually the band appeared on the stage and started playing their very loud stuff. I hadn't got a fecking clue. I decided that the safest thing to do was have another can of SPECIAL VAT.

While the band played their stuff I looked around the room at the fantastic collection of posters adorning the walls. I particularly liked the one of Shane MacGowan. It was the poster that advertised Rum Sodomy And The Lash by The Pogues. He was wearing a Napoleon’s hat and tunic and his teeth were spectacular. I was transfixed.

Another great poster hanging up there was for Sisters Of Mercy. Brilliant.

I was scared shitless but too fascinated to leave.

I can't remember the name of the band who played that night I first entered the underworld of JB's. I guess it doesn't matter as probably no-one in the room knew either.

Goodness knows what happened that night. The SPECIAL VAT continued to flow and the music continued to play. Eventually we must have gone home (via Pars Kebab House). We must have enjoyed our first experience (or was it morbid fascination) at JB's as we soon became addicted to the place.

Over the years I have been lucky enough to have seen some brilliant bands at JB's. The list includes such luminaries as The Wonderstuff, Fuzzbox (who were one of my greatest nights there), Semour (who later changed their name to BLUR), Ned's Atomic Dustbin, The Wallflowers and The Mighty Lemon Drops (of which my good friend and colleague at Drainage Castings, Keith, was the drummer – another story – I don't want this to be a blog boasting of famous friends). The list of bands I saw there could go on and on. Great bands. Great times.

When JB's moved from behind Pathfinders it changed. I've been to the new building many times to see such and such tribute or band but it just wasn't the same. It couldn't be.

And now it has gone.

Last night, one of my mates, Simon Bennett, asked me if I fancied going up there for the last time. I enquired the name of the band but wasn't interested really. Half of me wanted to go and be part of the final bow out, but the rest of me...... just didn't want to go.

Perhaps that's where the problem lies. I'm mourning far too late. The JB's I loved went a million years ago when we were young and Britain still had a lady prime minister.

This JB's wasn't my JB's.

My JB's was a subterranean underworld where zombies walked. Where bands played before they became famous, or disappeared forever. Where crushed up SPECIAL VAT and RED STRIPE cans piled up around the edges of the room. Where most of the women looked like Siouxsie Sioux or Mary from the first year of Eastenders. Where two young men, in comfortable brogues and pleated trousers crashed headlong into a future where music was dark and heavy and real.

JB's. RIP.