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 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…

A Thursday night in The Bee Hive pub at the top of West Street. I’m here with band-mate Charlie Collins, Richard Kirk and his girlfriend Lynn Clarke. This is their local, being just a…

“We’ve got African brown rice and lentils, mung bean noodles, a tabbouleh salad. . .” “’Ave yer got any chips?” “We don’t do chips.” “Those bananas look a bit funny.” “They’re not bananas, they’…

Pimple-peppered forehead pressed against the coach window, I gawp at Yvonne and Alice, naked and entwined, eighteen-feet high at the side of the road. Yvonne, inscrutable, gently rests her head on Alice’s hand. Alice…

“I’m So Hollow?” “Here”. “They Must Be Russians?” “Present”. “Vendino Pact?” “Yes, Miss”. A warm summer evening, and its registration time for Sheffield bands at the Lower Refectory on Western Bank. Vice Versa, DVA,…