There are houses in Moseley where you can borrow a cup of sugar. At 53 Prospect Road, you can peer through a door at a toy unicorn waiting to give a performance that will never begin, before continuing through five levels of war, worship, nudity and existential uncertainty. I haven’t checked the sugar situation. Fred Fabre has quite enough on.
The Wrong Gallery is one of the most brilliantly bizarre things I’ve encountered in Birmingham. It’s unsettling, funny, occasionally uncomfortable and lodged somewhere in my head. Birmingham needs more places that make you wonder what on earth you’ve just walked into. Fred has pursued his vision past the point where any sensible person might have suggested renting a small studio and taking up watercolours.
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Five floors of someone else’s imagination can do peculiar things to your own. A Sacred Theatre, the current exhibition, occupies ten rooms of a large Victorian house, which is also Fred’s home. Paintings, films, photographs and installations form a continuous narrative, although your route through it can change. Some doors refuse to open. Others offer peepholes. Nothing is labelled. You have to negotiate your own relationship with whatever is waiting inside.
“During an exhibition I essentially become a lodger in my own artwork,” Fred says. “Some doors are locked. Those are the ones where the actual horror lives: my laundry.”
Born in Paris, Fred describes his birthplace as “a bit like being born in a museum: lovely, but you’re not allowed to touch anything, so you learn to protest”. He worked as a frontline cameraman and journalist, then moved into documentary photography, work that eventually earned him a BAFTA. Painting followed because some experiences resisted his existing tools.
“The things I saw in those years didn’t fit in a report or a frame, so they forced their way into paint.”
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After an MFA at Chelsea College of Art as a mature student, he arrived in Moseley in 2021, finding what he calls “a dying Victorian house”. Inspired by Gustave Moreau’s house in Paris, he set about building somewhere to accommodate his own imagination.
“It’s been trying to kill me ever since, and we’ve reached an understanding.”
The building has become a collaborator with opinions. Its staircase, cellar, unusually high hallway and street light all contribute. Somewhere between the chapel and the cellar, a gallery visit becomes a personal matter. Across successive exhibitions, Fred watched footage visitors made of themselves moving through the rooms, searching for precisely that shift.
“I was hunting for one moment: when people stop looking at art and start looking inward.”
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He moved things, removed things and made works for particular rooms. Now, he believes, that shift happens almost immediately.
“By the time you come out of it, you’re no longer visiting a gallery. You’ve walked into a book or a film, and the house hasn’t even started on you yet.”
A house encourages curiosity. You wonder what’s upstairs, what’s behind a door, whether you should be somewhere at all. Fred understands the attraction: “You’re sort of trespassing, and everyone loves trespassing.”
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Then there are the unicorns. Many unicorns. Enough to make you reconsider everything the pencil-case industry has taught you, particularly the dead one in the basement (above). Fred sees the creature as mythology’s great survivor: an emblem of purity, a royal symbol, a billion-dollar business, a stationery staple. Its meaning changes according to whoever controls it.
“That makes it the perfect mirror for the women in the house, who were also written out and rewritten. So I gave them their horns back.”
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"I HAVEN’T QUITE WORKED OUT WHAT HAPPENED TO ME AT 53 PROSPECT ROAD. MAYBE THAT’S THE POINT."
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In She Was Always Here (below), hands are folded in prayer beneath a horn rising from braided hair. Unicornis Artificialis, meanwhile, gives a toy unicorn the mock authority of an anatomical drawing. Wrongdoers, then, presents figures bound by their necks, hands marked with blood. These works make an odd, disquieting company for one another. Innocence, violence and the language of authority keep crossing paths.
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The chapel holds Adoration of the Unicorn: a robed, unicorn-headed figure receiving the raised hands of six kneeling figures. Fred welcomes conflicting readings. Someone might see an attack on the purity projected onto women; someone else might find genuine devotion in the candles, mats and hush.
“Both are right.”
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Artificial intelligence offers another possibility: a creature assembled from fragments, receiving people’s hopes and fears precisely because they don’t understand what’s inside. Fred leaves the interpretations in play. “The show never chooses. I’m not that kind of host.”
Behind a peephole (above), a miniature stage has red velvet curtains and a lit chandelier. A toy unicorn (below) waits beneath a handwritten promise: “performance starts in ___h ___min”. The blanks remain empty. You might look briefly, wait, or return to check.
“I hope they notice that they’re waiting,” Fred says. “That’s the whole piece.”
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He’d like visitors to consider other promised performances: miracles, political deliverance, the next upgrade. “Belief is mostly waiting with good lighting.”
That line is funny enough to enjoy immediately, then troublesome enough to follow you home. Much of the exhibition works that way. The absurdity lets you approach something you might otherwise resist. Later, you realise it has left something behind.
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Fred’s companion novel, The Wrong Gallery, explores an entity assembled from a lifetime of fragments, questioning which were real. Reading it isn’t required. “The exhibition is the body, the novel is the voice in its head.”
Every work here is his, though the house also supports other artists. Donations fund The Flank, its free outdoor exhibition space, for 2027. Birmingham suits his independence. “Here, you can just start,” he says.
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He warns of war, death, nudity and a game called Whack-a-Dick. This isn’t for children. I found it deeply unsettling, but I’m glad I went.
I entered a house in Moseley. Some part of me is apparently still there. I haven’t quite worked out what happened to me at 53 Prospect Road. Maybe that’s the point.
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A Sacred Theatre runs October 15 to 18, 11am to 5pm, at Wrong Gallery, 53 Prospect Road, Moseley. Suggested minimum donation £5 per person.
Enter at your own risk. Not for everyone.
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THE MOST ICONIC HINDI MOVIE EVER MADE...
NOW WITH ADDED ORCHESTRA!
Your television’s soundbar has had a good run. On November 1, Symphony Hall raises the stakes, screening arguably the most iconic Hindi film ever made, Sholay, with the BBC Philharmonic Orchestra performing R. D. Burman’s score live. Awkward evening for the Bluetooth speaker.
Released in 1975, Ramesh Sippy’s epic follows two small-time crooks, played by Amitabh Bachchan and Dharmendra, recruited by a former police officer to capture the fearsome bandit Gabbar Singh. Think spaghetti Western swagger meets Indian folklore, with romance, comedy and spectacular action all elbowing for space. This is a film with absolutely no interest in picking a lane. It ran at Mumbai’s Minerva cinema for five uninterrupted years. Your local multiplex could never.
As Shubhra Gupta of The Indian Express put it: “You can divide Hindi cinema into two eras, pre-and-post Sholay. It is a landmark. They don't make 'em like this anymore.”
They don’t tend to show them like this, either. Sholay: The Final Cut is a 4K restoration reinstating the original ending and two deleted scenes, returning material removed by the censors ahead of its release. Even longstanding devotees have something fresh to discover.
Following a sold-out Royal Albert Hall performance (you read that right), Birmingham’s screening pairs the giant screen with conductor George Morton and soloists Kirpal Panesar on tar shehnai, Janan Sathiendran on tabla and Kaviraj Singh on santoor. Presented in Hindi with English subtitles, it starts at 5pm on Sunday, November 1. Tickets cost £31.50 to £61.50. Netflix can have the night off.
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THE WITCHING HOUR, BUT MAKE IT CLASSY
The nights are drawing in, the temperature's dropping, albeit slowly, and we've reached that wonderful time of year when buying a candle feels less like shopping and more like preparing for a six-month siege. Happily, Birmingham Artisan Markets has just the thing with their Night Market landing in Edgbaston Village, this Halloween.
The long roster of traders reads like the Avengers of independent retail, only with better knitwear and considerably fewer explosions.
With a childhood spent raiding secret stashes of Cadbury's chocolate, the founder of Brownie Che, Dina, was always destined for a life of cocoa-related crime. These days, she's gone legitimate, handcrafting gloriously gooey, chewy brownies in all manner of flavours, alongside nostalgic retro desserts. Vegan and gluten-free options mean nobody need miss out.
For those occasions when a supermarket card just won't cut it, Froude Nine has you covered. Illustrator Billie creates beautifully personal greetings cards, keepsakes and gifts, capturing everything from life's big milestones to its gloriously ridiculous little moments. Thoughtful, funny and lovingly illustrated, they're the sort of cards people actually keep.
Finally, one for the geeks, fantasy obsessives and Tolkien devotees: Rowan Silversmiths founder Luke Rowan handcrafts wonderfully nerdy jewellery from ethically sourced recycled silver. Think PS2 controller pendants, replicas of The One Ring and intricate bands depicting the legendary battle between Achilles and Hector. Precious things, indeed. And not a Gollum in sight.
That's just three of about 40 traders who will line Greenfield Crescent, October 30, 4pm to 9pm. If you're looking for a hot, sit down meal before your market shop, there's The Physican, Chapter, The High Field, Smoke + Ash and plenty more avialble. Make like Adrian Mole and diarise it. More
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HARRIOTT COMES HOME (AND BRINGS PALS)
Most people return to their old workplace to collect a forgotten mug. Darren Harriott returned to his to perform on Live at the Apollo. Having previously worked as a bouncer at the Hammersmith venue, the Black Country comic swapped keeping people out for bringing them all in.
After teenage gang involvement, Darren juggled stand-up gigs with security shifts before becoming the first Black British stand-up nominated for the Edinburgh Comedy Award. These days you’re more likely to spot him on Love Island: Aftersun, Would I Lie to You? or Dancing on Ice. That last one presumably required a different kind of security briefing.
Now he’s heading home to headline Birmingham Museum & Art Gallery’s winter comedy season, November 5. Joining him are Birmingham’s Masai Graham, twice crowned winner of Dave’s Funniest Joke of the Fringe, Melbourne export Michael Shafar and stalwart MC Josephine Lacey, a resident host at London’s Top Secret Comedy Club. That really is a helluva line-up.
Arrive early for a wander through the Level 2 galleries and a drink before the comedy begins. Doors open at 6pm and close at 6.45pm, with the show starting at 7pm. Art, booze and jokes: a respectable evening with considerable scope for becoming less so. Tickets
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WHO’S BANKROLLING BRITAIN?
Money talks. Some people’s money appears to have its own microphone, parliamentary pass and reserved seat at the table. How that happens, and what it means for the rest of us, is the subject of The Assetocracy, a free-to-attend panel discussion at the University of Birmingham, on October 29.
Part of the ESRC Festival of Social Science 2026, the evening marks the publication of Dr Huw Macartney’s book of the same name, examining the connections between wealth, inequality and political power in Britain. Who gets heard? Whose interests shape decisions? And how democratic is democracy when some voices come with substantially better amplification?
Political scientist Professor Matthew Flinders chairs, with Macartney joined by Baroness Natalie Bennett, former Green Party leader and member of the House of Lords, and Helen Barnard, the Trussell Trust’s Director of Policy.
Bennett brings experience from inside political decision-making; Barnard’s work spans poverty, housing, labour markets and social security. Together, they’ll explore how influence operates in Westminster and closer to home.
An evening for anyone who’s ever suspected their vote and someone else’s bank balance carry different weight. Register
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Venue: Simple Things, 40 Cox Street, B3 1RD; Instagram
Choice: Clover Club (£10) Chooser: Toby
If 40 St Paul’s was the sort of bar where you might arrange to have someone killed, its replacement is where you’d take them to apologise.
Simple Things opened yesterday in the JQ, occupying the same address but with an entirely different personality. Gone is the vampirically dark, speakeasy-ish atmosphere, replaced by something altogether more polished.
Deep petrol-blue walls, dark timber and warm amber lighting lend the place a mid-century touch, while a magnificent quadruple orb pendant above the bar looks like it was pinched from Hotel Okura Tokyo, circa 1970. It’s retro without being kitsch, sophisticated without being stuffy, and proof that a change of identity needn’t involve a sledgehammer.
We started with a Tomatini, which sounds like a cocktail invented by the marketing department at Bella Italia. Fris vodka, plum tomato, white balsamic and lemon. Delicate, savoury, unexpectedly refreshing, with the balsamic bringing a sotto voce of sweetness and acidity that charmed the pants off the pair of us. Imagine a tomato having a weekend at Soho Farmhouse and emerging as its best possible self.
Next, the Clover Club. Beefeater brings a riptide of juniper, there's more than an ankle flash of raspberry, plus lemon for zing and luxurious egg white, all shaken into a deep cerise cloud. Dangerously drinkable and the best Clover Club I've had since, well, The Clover Club. Only a tenner, too, which in this economy feels like an administrative error.
The Boulevardier was the grown-up of the group. Wild Turkey rye, Campari and Cocchi Torino. Three ingredients, none of them remotely interested in being your pal. Dark, bitter, boozy and magnificent. The rye brings a curtain twitch of lingering pepper, the Campari delivers its familiar bittersweet uppercut, and the vermouth rounds everything out with a rich, herbal smackeroo. If the Clover Club is a flirtatious first date, the Boulevardier is a twice-divorced Italian architect who knows things about you that you've never told anyone.
The Grape & Citrus was another little triumph, combining Takamaka Blanc rum, Cointreau, Sauvignon Blanc juice and citrus into something wonderfully light and lively, while the Old Cuban was like a gloriously sybaritic Mojito that's inherited a considerable amount of dosh. The rum brings warmth and depth, the lime and mint keep everything upbeat and interesting, and the Champagne gives the whole thing celebratory chutzpah.
You have to give alcohol credit where it’s due. It always provides a decent fog of retrograde amnesia, but I think three drinks each came to about £80. Which seems remarkably reasonable in an age where any bill that doesn't involve triple figures — be it Nobu or Nando's — is a bloody relief.
Mirabile dictu, cocktails at about £12 that actually feel worth it. Maybe that's why it's called Simple Things. Reservations
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MATTHEW BOURNE'S THE CAR MAN: ★★★★★
Someone fetch a cold shower, stat! Matthew Bourne’s The Car Man is sex on legs, a gloriously steamy ballet thriller that puts the Hippodrome’s air-con to the test.
Set in the fictional American town of Harmony, its 1950s garage and diner simmer with lust, buzzing neon and drifting steam. There’s a whiff of West Side Story, although the neighbourhood watch would have considerably more paperwork here. Even the air seems hot. You half expect the programme to start fanning itself.
Into this walks Will Bozier’s Luca, whose raw masculinity could invalidate the building’s insurance. His encounters with Ashley Shaw’s Lana are fiery, frantic and mesmerising: desire expressed through bodies that seem incapable of keeping their distance. Elsewhere, gentler duets offer tenderness and longing, making the gathering ugliness hit harder. Danny Reubens’s garage owner Dino is magnificently repellent.
The company moves with extraordinary precision, blending contemporary dance and ballet so effortlessly that the physical graft almost disappears. A cheeky shower scene, meanwhile, produces a conspicuous surge in audience appreciation.
When the action shifts to a seedy club and jail, the atmosphere darkens and Bourne tightens his grip. A dazzling mime sequence, ingenious lighting and Terry Davies’s music, incorporating Shchedrin’s Carmen Suite, turn seduction into something increasingly sinister. The twists keep coming; the evening absolutely flies.
Cinematic, erotic and utterly transfixing, this earns every second of its roof-raising standing ovation. At Birmingham Hippodrome until October 17 with some tickets, somehow, still available.
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Techno Cafe returns to Dead Wax, Digbeth, Oct 17, pairing free daytime DJ workshops, open decks and industry conversations with nighttime techno and electro. Come to learn; stay to dance. Details
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The city's best cocktail extravaganza, Birmingham Cocktail Weekend, runs Oct 22 to Oct 25 and every participating bar will serve a £6 signature cocktail and a £5 mocktail. Some also have a £9 cocktail and snack pairing. Book
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The Handbag Clinic returns to Selfridges this October for three months. Head to the fourth floor for pre-owned designer bags, expert authentication, repairs and restoration, or exchange your unwanted arm candy for a Selfridges voucher. Book
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New Jewellery Quarter gallery Catacomb hosts Emma Woolley’s Inner States, a collection of modern figurative paintings running from now until Nov 21. Find the independent venture at The Goodsyard, opposite Jewellery Quarter station, alongside tattoos and retail. More
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Taiwanese comfort food pops up at The Juke, Kings Heath, Oct 23 to 25. Expect sweet, savoury flavours and a healthy enthusiasm for garlic. Head to York Road from 5.30pm on Friday or midday over the weekend. Food until 10pm on all three. Details
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Head to the Rep this Saturday (Oct 17) for the Black History Month live stand-up special featuring stars from the BBC comedy series The Real McCoy.
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Hue & Cry and Roachford are performing at Symphony Hall this Friday (Oct 16).
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The Jewellery Quarter Artisan Market is this Saturday (Oct 17) while Bournville Artisan Market is Sunday (Oct 18). More
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