A white, long sleeved jersey, with six uninterrupted emerald green hoops. My first replica football kit. No number to indicate the player or position (even aged eight, this is aesthetically important to me); instead there…

Gig poster courtesy of Simon Dell. “Reagan’s president elect Fascist god in motion… Brothers, sisters, we don’t need this fascist groove thang.” Sheffield friends Heaven 17 have just released ‘(We Don’t Need…

Gig flyer courtesy of Jon Downing. A mid-morning coffee-break at the National Coal Board’s offices on Queen Street, Sheffield. On the second-floor landing, a small queue is forming at the vending machine, proffering ten…

Sunday afternoon, a car crash, at the junction of Belgrave Road and Warwick Gardens. There are shouts, a crumpled thud as traffic island halts Ford, and a loud smack as I head-butt the windscreen. Hard…

Pity poor Tracey Evans, the object of my affection, as she arrives to work to find another token of my ardour on her desk. Here’s my debut album. “You don’t have a record…

Sunday lunch-time. George Quail, sixty-five year-old, recently retired steel mill worker, is poring over an existential essay written by Genesis P-Orridge, thirty year-old musician, artist and disruptor-in-chief with Throbbing Gristle. Entitled “A Lion In A…