THE Midlands are shrouded in mist, freezing cold. They more than ever resemble the Scottish border country.
I find myself at the Nottingham Road Hotel in the delightful company of a former Miss South Africa and three other glamorous gals, plus three stumblebum fellows I know. We are there for lunch, warmed by a roaring fire.
Ah, the Notties, I haven’t been there for years, it brings back memories.
The bar seems much the same as before, the long, smooth counter on which, late at night, the fellows (and sometimes the gals also) would splash vodka, set it alight then take a running dive and slide through the flames.
Most spectacular. And the punters would lift their beer glasses and carry on conversation, barely noticing the person sliding past. Yes,…