Things you’ll only know if you’re from Wolverhampton
Were you raised by Wolves?
WOLVES AY WE. An actual source of pride for our modest city, seating over 30,000, the golden triumph that is our footy stadium towers over the city as a beacon of hope, a place to dream the impossible dream.
Too bad the teams doing shite.
Every Wulfrunian has a secret love for the Fountain of Grace (yes, seriously.) We can’t get enough of this beautiful landmark on St. Johns square.
It may seem mediocre, but actually it’s the perfect watering hole for the tired Wolverhampton shopper; kids play in it, youths stick drumsticks down the spouts, and it provides a speedy shower for those in a rush. Sick.
‘No, we’re not in Birmingham, and yes we are a city’
The mantra of every Wolves student to go to university.
Everyone has a love-hate relationship with this glorified cement hole.
You definitely went there in your military boots and bikini in year nine. You possibly skated in the empty pool through the cold winter months. You’ve almost certainly had a wasp-infested, depressing picnic on its crowded shores, as cries of “BAB CAREFUL U DAY FALL IN” drift past your head.
In recent years, you might have noticed the hallowed tree was fenced off after being used as a dumping place for syringes. None of this will stop you returning there for some sweaty nostalgia this June.
The designated meeting place in town since year 8, the Man on The Horse statue is a famous central point for our town, referred to (by us imaginative citizens) as the MOTH.
Close enough to Yates, New Look, and the fit bird who sells donuts, it just makes sense to congregate here.
There’s that promoter from your school whose social media is like, ‘Yates’s is going OFF this Thursday MESSAGE ME 4 BLOC PARTY’ blah blah blaaaaah.
Yes, it’s a fun piss up, and we all still wear heels and miniskirts like townies, and it will definitely involve jagerbombs and absolutely no class… but you have to love it.
Or at least you would, if the scary blonde lady on the door wasn’t looking at you like you’re still 16 and trying to get in on your cousins ID.
The straightest gay bar in town, everyone piles in here after Yates’s shuts.
As the crowd slowly thins, you find yourself awkwardly stranded between a ‘shut the gates’ racist type desperately trying to pull, and a confused gay bloke who hasn’t quite caught up with the influx of Yates’s leftover population. Go home.
Faces never quite lived up to its predecessor (Oceana was bae.)
Let’s face it, if you can’t get out on Thursday you may as well give up – unless you want to go back to telling mom that you’re having a sleepover whilst you secretly got and get trashed on Lambrini in a tent.
So with all this to consider, our rank as the least prosperous city in the whole of Britain seems ludicrous. To quote a disgruntled wolves citizen,
“It just ay fair, d’ya know what I mean, bab?”