What's He Building In There?

Today's been a long, hard trek out to the arse-end of nowhere and back, and for the distance I've travelled, photographic opportunities have been remarkably thin on the ground. The north-east fringes of the city - an area I've never had much cause to visit in the past - are a mixture of rural and urban landmarks that clash uncomfortably. The view from the window of the bus was more or less: house, house, house, field, cow, cow, Homebase, woodland, stream, deer, ASDA, house, cow, industrial estate. The giant purpose-built superstores with their sprawling car parks are plonked haphazardly amongst the cattle and the crops; you can't help but picture the checkouts staffed by scarecrows, the shelves scoured by pitchfork-wielding simpletons eager to find some flashing electronic bauble to offer as tribute during the annual Harvest Festival Virgin Sacrifice. Furthermore, these megamarts can only be reached by travelling down roaring dual carriageways that abruptly segue into country lanes with roundabouts inexplicably bulldozed into them at sporadic intervals. The whole landscape feels like a picture drawn by two squabbling children on one piece of paper. I want tractors and horsies! I want lorries and warehouses! I want trees and fields and hedges! I want motorways and bypasses!

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the north-eastern outskirts of Birmingham.

Back in the backstreets of the city, everything feels more reassuringly disturbing. The dilapidated houses and squats actually seem to belong to the landscape they're in, and even if they look mildly terrifying on the outside, they're nothing compared to the Retail Park of the Damned a few miles away.

So, tonight I'm in the mood for Tom Waits' ode to neighbourly trust and community spirit.


What's he building in there?
What the hell is he building in there?
He has subscriptions to those magazines
He never waves when he goes by
He's hiding something from the rest of us
He's all to himself
I think I know why
He took down the tire swing from the peppertree
He has no children of his own, you see
He has no dog
And he has no friends
And his lawn is dying
And what about all those packages he sends?

What's he building in there?
With that hook light on the stairs
What's he building in there?

I'll tell you one thing
He's not building a playhouse for the children
What's he building in there?

Now what's that sound from under the door?
He's pounding nails into a hardwood floor
And I swear to God I heard someone moaning low
And I keep seeing the blue light of a TV show
He has a router and a table saw
And you won't believe what Mr Sticha saw
There's poison underneath the sink, of course
But there's also enough formaldehyde to choke a horse

What's he building in there?
What the hell is he building in there?
I heard he has an ex-wife
In some place called Mayors Income, Tennessee
And he used to have a consulting business in Indonesia
But what is he building in there?
What the hell is he building in there?

He has no friends, but he gets a lot of mail
I'll bet he spent a little time in jail
I heard he was up on the roof last night
Signalling with a flashlight
And what's that tune he's always whistling?

What's he building in there?

What's he building in there?

We have a right to know