There are numerous writing both fictional and bio which he has written.
It was in a South Norfolk village, the autumn evening was tranquil and warm so groups of locals were taking advantage of it, strolling and chatting on the green.
Outside the Red Lion were a group of ‘ shooters’, the ‘guns’ as they are called in these parts, mainly youngish lads who sounded well pleased with their day spent destroying the local wildlife. They seemed determined to inform everyone else of their prowess, and were letting them know what fun they were having by emitting loud guffaws, all seemed to talk and no one to listen.
A small gathering of young ladies were chatting nearby, a group of friends out to enjoy...
Up Ivegate, past the Co-op on the left, keep going along Sunbridge Road and you find yourself on level but high ground. All streets on the left drop steeply away as they descend to Thornton Road. At the junction of one of these side streets stands the premises of Thomas Crossland Ltd - Rayon Waste- Tops and Noils, a fairly typical Victorian stone building. To anyone walking along Sunbridge Road it would seem to be an imposing two story office building, built to impress, yet beyond this facade are the warehouses and and sorting tables for the re- cycling of the rayon waste. Standing in the cobbled yard at the rear however you would see a tall five story warehouse with two columns of loading doors each topped with a hoist, such is the steepness of the hill.
I am not usually to be found hanging around Liverpool Street Station but I’d narrowly missed my train and was resigned to a long wait. It was mid- evening on a memorable day, Tuesday 16th August 1977, the day Elvis died and well past the rush hour, so the amorphous mass of commuters had thinned and I was left to wearily scan the remnants as they scurried home.
A cheery little group approached from my left, they looked a pretty ordinary lot, obviously a family out without the mother. Two early teenagers, too young to worry about trends or taking sides. I could tell that the dad had travelled the Rocker road to his forty years by his haircut which was still clinging onto it’s personality whilst fast disappearing, not so the sideburns though, they screamed Teddy boy. His clothes had mellowed since his youth too, they were no longer a badge of style or...
On the fringes of a Northern city this derelict former brick factory is hidden away in several acres of wooded valley and crumbling from neglect and vandalism. Dank, overgrown and eerily littered with the detritus of drugs and sex. Many of the still standing walls are covered in graffiti, freshly painted and exuberant, shining out against it’s miserable backdrop.
Fascinated by this bit of industrial history I have been there several times. The last time I was there was with my two adult sons and a nephew from Australia, at first the place seemed deserted, even with the four of us it felt edgy, a bit scary. All was quiet for a while
then came the sound of a motorbike close by. We were on a narrow path down the side of one of buildings, the bike came straight towards us ridden by a tatty individual about twenty years old. We had to jump aside to let him through. He looked straight at us but said nothing. this happened a couple more times as we carried on round. It was as if he were trying to scare us off but all he...