Where Theres Muck Theres Brass

Now then mucka, welcome to the land of chip ‘oyles’ (fish and chips shops), ‘growlers’ (pork pies) and bingo daubers. A wonderful place where a night out will cost you twenty quid, including your kebab, cheesy chips and taxi fare home. A place of hard graft, grit and perseverance, where your mates have always got your back and you’ve always got theirs. I’m talking of Barnsley, the most unique town you’ve never heard of, except we don’t say town, we say tarn.

Nestled in the heart of South Yorkshire, our claim to fame is the miners strike of 1984/85, a pivotal moment in UK history which marked the beginning of deindustrialisation and a change in course for our country. It’s a source of pride in my town, as a child I was told stories of a brave miner who stood up for his community against the full might of the UK state in a bitter year long strike, that tested his body, heart, mind and soul. Yeah that brave miner might have been my uncle talking about himself with a few embellished details, but i'm sure he really did take on those 6 riot police with nothing but his bare fists.

But sadly the strike is also a source of shame… They fought and they lost, and now that way of life is dead, it’s history, we are no longer known for coal, but for call centres, distribution centres and the metrodome - that's my era. But the history is never that far away, it’s all around us, whether it’s in the rusting, decaying landscape or in the scars that never healed, such as my uncle Arthur still refusing to speak to my uncle Jimmy, 35 years after he scabbed to get his redundancy payment, even as he lay on his death bed from COVID-19, some wounds are just too deep, or some men are just too proud.

Growing up in Barnsley was both a blessing and a curse. It’s a town of complete contradictions, where you will find people who would give you the shirt off their back, and others who will take yours off you. I’ll always remember my dad telling me “Most hills in Barnsley aren’t really hills lad, they’re slag heaps.” And that's something that stuck with me, it’s a town where things aren't always what they seem.

There wasn’t much to do as a kid around here, you would have to make your own fun. I remember my mates Jibba and Dougie would come knocking on my door, “Ah Seh! Is your connor in? we’re lakein (playing) rand backs kicking dog shit, av got me wellies on and lot!!”, my dad would look at them gone out “haven't you got a football?” Yeah we have, but that's not the point dad sometimes you have to be creative with how you have fun.

And that is what I love about this town, it’s a town full of eccentrics, and there's nothing we love more in this country than the great British eccentric… except maybe alcohol. Quite often the two things go hand in hand, at least in my family they do.

My grandad has always been my go to when it comes to alcohol knowledge. He has proudly passed on his decades of wisdom, sampling the finest beers across the land, to tell me what to drink and what to avoid.

“Thas got to stick to real ale lad, it’s got none of them nasty gases and goes darn much nicer, just mek sure it’s got a good head on it, and if tha gets too pissed, get ya sen a pint of milk.” - He’s not wrong.

We can be very passionate about the presentation of a beer around here. It must be slowly pulled until it's three thirds full, left to settle, then topped up with about half an inch of head on the beer. Too much head then people will sarcastically compare your beer to an ice cream and ask "Can I have a flake with that?", but too little of an head and you may get accused of being a "southerner", one of the gravest of insults. "You drink with your eyes" I'm told.

My nan on the other hand is more of a home bird. Her vice is not alcohol, but zumba fitness, card making and online shopping, QVC being her main poison. Christmas, valentines day, birthdays whatever the occasion she has a card for it, she never sells them though, she just makes them. You’d think with so much practice she could spell my name right, but the last card i got had Connon embezzled on.

While much of my bonding with my grandad is in pubs and working mens clubs playing snooker and drinking beer, with my nan it would be playing monopoly and cards. Me and my mum would spend hours making it to the bitter end of a game of monopoly. It’s weird how arguing over fake money somehow brings you closer together, I must warn you though, they are known to slip a few 500’s under the table.

She’s a hard women to win over, my nan. She would quite often tell me when I bring friends over “I don’t like the look of him, he’s up to no good.” Her protective instinct comes from a place of love, but can often be extreme. The world outside scares her, the fist fights outside pubs, the angry people on the streets. Whenever we go out for a drink it’s a source of major anxiety for her. “Your not going out drinking again are you Jeff? Look out for idiots and make sure you sit with your back to the wall!” she’d say to my grandad. I guess the rowdiness of wellington street can look a bit scary to a non drinker.

Sometimes she takes matters into her own hands. About an hour before my grandad’s due out she’d say “Do you want a cup of tea love?”. Except this is no normal tea, she will stir in one of her amitriptyline sleeping tablets, brewing up a hot cup of love. “I’m a bit tired actually now love, I might call spanner and carl to cancel that game of snooker.” my grandad would say.

But my family are not the only ones full of eccentricities, the whole street is. Whether it’s Pete who has opted to have no furniture in his house other than a wooden chair, because that's where he keeps his six favourite motorbikes, or Anthony across the road, who’s main hobby is burning rubbish in his mini back garden/ scrap yard, much to the bemusement of his neighbours, this town never fails to surprise.

"I've been passionate about bikes since being a young man. I like to dig out rusted old bikes that have been dumped and restore them back to their original glory. I have 11 bikes at the moment, 6 in the living room, 2 in the kitchen 3 in the shed."

“I’ve been burning rubbish since I was six year old, once I fell on the fire and my jumper melted to my back, last time I’m wearing polyester!”

And speaking of surprises, theres nowhere that quite represents Yorkshire culture than our humble market. It's a twisting labyrinth where you can find anything from knock off Ray Bans to fresh pigeon for your pigeon pie. People often travel from across Yorkshire to grab themselves a bargain or have a rummage through the flea market in hope of finding that sought after antique.

But Barnsley, for all it’s eccentricities and charm, can at times be like a bucket of crabs. As you aspire and climb your way to prosperity, you can easily get pulled straight back down. It’s a town I love, but also a town of deprivation, of few opportunities, a tough town where people have adapted to survive and it can be at times hard to thrive. It’s a town where you got to have your wits about you, your unlikely to get mugged in Barnsley, but getting punched on your walk home for no apparent reason is always a possibility, people love to fight here, theres always something to prove.

That's what makes friends so important, you need people who have got your back, to enjoy the good times with and share out the bad times. As a teenager we did what all teenagers do, getting smashed in the park or down the canal, venturing into Sheffield and Rotherham, sneaking ciggies from our mams and dads, drinking bottles of white lightning at £2 a pop and sometimes throwing up everywhere, I still can’t stomach that drink, even now. Sadly some of our group was lost to drink and drugs, growing up too fast, turning to the wrong things and the wrong people for escape. Music and photography was my escape and the two things seemed to always go hand in hand.

In England we like to call any run down town or city a shithole, but one thing that living in a shithole does, is it teaches you to make do with what you’ve got. We call it the DIY (do It yourself) ethic, and I’m not talking about home improvements. DIY means, not waiting for an opportunity, but creating your own. Whether it’s dragging the DJ decks two miles across the peak district or setting up a gig in a disused steel workshop, people aren't short on passion and making music for making music’s sake, not for fame or money. From Bassline and hip hop to punk and doom metal, theres a scene for everyone here and a tight nit community of musicians, artist and die hard fans to support it. It's an incredibly creative place that is inspired by it's surroundings and you can hear it in the music. Our genres have a distinct sound to them, inspired by the clanking of metal that would echo across the housing estates from the nearby factories.

It’s that passion and rebellion that I love about home, it’s ingrained in our culture, it’s in our blood. We’re forever rebels, the strike might be over but that spirit is still there, passed down the generations. We don’t care what the rest of the world thinks of us, we got our own thing going on and were proud of it. It might be run down, it might be a shithole, but it’s our shithole.

Now that I live in London, I find it both nostalgic and heartbreaking to go back home. I feel nostalgic for all the good times I had, the funs things I did, but it breaks my heart to see the place deteriorate further, to hear of more old friends lost to drink drugs and suicide, to see more people on the streets, more mates getting sectioned for mental health issues they can’t get treatment for. I both miss the place and feel grateful I am out. It’s a strange place like no other I’ve been to, yet in a way I imagine it’s representative of all post-industrial towns. It’s a town that's been dealt a bad hand, forgotten about and the people thrown on the scrap heap. But it will always keep on keeping on. It’s a town that has given me so much, a strong work ethic, a moral compass, a sense of community, an ability to make the most out of what I’ve got, to never see the glass half empty and to think creatively about the problems I face, a sense of perspective, to not take things for granted, an amazing family, the best friends ever and even the love of my life. So if you do decide to come up the M1, then come pay this unique place a visit, just don’t accept a cup of tea from my nan.

My home is South Yorkshire.