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…

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 despise Sir Keith Joseph. And I’m not alone in this. In an infamous 1974 speech, the right-wing Tory politician suggested that poor families should stop having kids because, “They are creating problem children.…

“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,…