Keith Harrison: All I want for Christmas is to take back this fair city

I am to the Travelodge empire what the Major was to Fawlty Towers; old, forgetful and not to be let loose with a shotgun.

Last week, I was strolling around the achingly-hip North Laine in Brighton, checking out bohemian fashions, vintage book stores and restaurants so trendy they changed styles faster than the place settings.

Strolling along the seafront, there was the iconic pier, the sun setting on the horizon and a lone Lambretta resting by the railings. There by the sea and sand, everything went as planned.

Wandering back into town I delved into one of the many old-school independent record shops for a mooch and a chat about how much my old collection would have been worth. Not a lot, apparently. Seems everyone bought a 7-inch copy of Ghost Town in 1981. Who knew?

Later, we took our pick of welcoming pubs and restaurants and chatted with the locals until the early hours.

Then it was a stroll past the iconic pavilions as crowds of good-natured revellers waited for night buses in the early hours. All very nice.

A bit nearer, but no less friendly, Shrewsbury is great at any time of year, Bridgnorth is beautiful and Stafford looks lovely with the Christmas tree up in Market?Square.

(Stay with this, bored reader. There's a sting in the tale coming. As always.)

I'm deciding between Telford, the Bullring and Merry Hill for the traditional last-minute shopping dash and may cram in a visit to Walsall?Art Gallery, which is always good value. But what of Wolverhampton?

Now, don't get me wrong. I love this city. The people are among the friendliest anywhere in the world.

But 'Oh, little town of Bethlehem' it ain't.

Speaking to a mate from Edinburgh the other day, he listed Wolvo as one of the biggest messholes he'd ever seen. Only he didn't say 'mess'.

Woah, woah, woah, there laddie. I took him to task and pointed out the many hidden gems beneath that misplaced outsider image.

There's the Civic, host to great bands, great shows, great comedians. There's the Grand Theatre, with Joe Pasquale packing them in for the panto season.

"Kids?" he said, "In Wolverhampton? After dark? Good luck with that."

"Baubles," I replied, or words to that effect, "Give a wolf a bad name . . . . etc"

So we went to the panto.?Had a great time. Joe was hilarious and the great old Grand rocked with laughter to mark its 119th birthday. Then, in the couple of hundred yards back to the car park we were:

a) Shouted at and chased by a drunk

b) Witnesses to a fight outside a betting shop

c) Hit by more whiffs of pot than Nigella's home help

It was 9.30pm. On a Tuesday.

And it's depressing.

We live and work in this city. Hundreds of thousands of decent, hard-working families, who take pride in it and would love nothing more than to be able to stroll around in safety, spending money in local shops, eating in local restaurants and drinking – in moderation – in local bars.

But we can't. Not as much as we'd like, anyhow.

Not until someone, somewhere stops just talking about sorting out this city's problems, faces up to them and does something about them.

So Dear Santa, MPs, councillors, constables, magistrates, Rudolph, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, that's all I really want for Christmas – a miracle on Dudley Street.

And, in the words of The Beach Boys again . . . wouldn't it be nice?