The Daily Novel

The county court in Walsall, where my great-grandfather lived in the middle of the nineteenth century, must have been full of suppressed giggles yesterday. Before my learned friends was a family from Sandwell, in the heart of the Black Country, a few miles from Wolverhampton. Allegedly they transformed two adjoining council houses into a nightclub.

They installed a gym, sauna, glitter ball and disco lights. According to the prosecution evidence, 400 people visited within a 36-hour period, paying £2.50 for entrance and £2.50 for a glass of beer. The family are also accused of drug dealing, rent arrears, and of growing cannabis in a bedroom. But according to the family the smell emanated not from the weed but from the feet of the teenage son.

The family deny all the allegations and the case continues. You can read the full story in The Guardian.

In my years in the Black Country, of course, nothing ever happened like this. The workers were far too tired after their day at the blast furnace to trip the light fantastic. And if they wanted any more beer, on top of the two pints supplied free at the workplace, they could buy it at tuppence a pint in one the numerous pubs in the High Street.