Sheffield & The North

I think it’s going to rain today

If you ever need to dissect the rationale for smug, southern, condescending attitudes to The North, just visit Chapeltown about five miles north of Sheffield city centre. I bought a Fiesta from the Ford Main Dealer here about fifteen years ago, for my then-teenage kids to crash. I remembered it as an unremarkable bit of Northern Town hinterland. No more, no less.

Having amassed a gazillion Wyndham ‘Reward’ points with ninety-plus motel stays in North America earlier in the year, I found one of Wyndham’s properties near Hillsborough and ‘rewarded’ myself with a free night at the unappealingly named Staindrop Lodge, the night before the Clarets’ encounter with Sheffield Wednesday.

A bare room, hard floors and dodgy electrics was the bounty I reaped for my devotion. Plunged into darkness as night fell, I went down to the bar while the owner/manager sorted out the power issues. At 17:30, the other customers included a bunch of shaven-headed kids semi-supervised by psychotic parents. Most were loud, garrulous, extravagantly tattooed and, even at this early hour, spectacularly drunk. It was not a place to hang around.

So I declined the ‘half-price to residents’ menu (which looked OK if a bit ho-hum) and walked the half-mile or so to the tempting Wood Fired Pizza Company. They have a lovely website, with handsome monochrome photos of ingredients, all of impeccable provenance and chosen with love and care. The only problem was that this particular outlet for Sheffield’s premier artisan pizza company was geschlossen and is now a Dominos, which is surprising as there is another branch of this US franchise on an adjacent street, a few yards away.

But this is to underestimate the limitless demand for appalling food the locals appear to have. The whole of Station Road was packed with cash-only takeaways and strewn with undistinguished Japanese 4x4s, parked half-on, half-off the pavement (a capital offence, in my book). Meanwhile the owners shuffled in and heaved their way out the few feet back to their cars for the short drive home, displaying an indifference to climate-change in sharp contrast to that for sludge and deep-fried orange stuff.

What looks like a vibrant local night-time economy at first sight is actually witnessing the life-blood of a community slowly seep away. There is only one reason to be cash-only these days and that’s to avoid declaring the income and evade tax. Meanwhile, franchise contracts are typically constructed to ensure the bulk of returns from any business are channeled back to where that business is based. In the case of Domino’s this is zero-tax Delaware.

While the discussion on the efficacy of Corporation Tax is indeed an interesting one, it’s not for these pages but what is clear is Chapeltown benefits not a jot from a significant number of the businesses it hosts. I don’t know if it qualifies yet as a ‘left-behind’ town, but on this evidence, it’s heading that way.

So I wandered Chapeltown and concluded the epicurean option in this locale was… the local Spoons. I went top-dollar: £12.50 for their Ultimate Burger and a large glass of fairly potent Aussie Shiraz. The ‘Ultimate’ comprised of two 3oz patties, apparently made from farm-to-fork traceable, 100% British Beef, topped with maple-cured bacon and cheddar cheese. Served with JDW’s signature sauce, gherkin, toasted bun, fries and onion rings, it sounded like just the ticket after a brisk but chilly 230-mile motorcycle ride. It tasted of precisely nothing. Nada. So I tried each of its component parts separately. Still nothing. The most worthless 1656 calories I’ve ever ingested.

As far as I can work out, it also had zero nutritional value as I scarcely made it back up the hill. So I went into ‘The Barrell’ for a bag of dry roast nuts and a pint, as I was flagging. It was another bloody crèche. But this time with a live band thrashing out decent versions of Oasis, AC/DC and The Killers staples. The high point was an incongruous ‘Gimme Gimme Gimme (A Man After Midnight)’, the ABBA hymn to unsated female lust, as imagined by a bunch of fifty-something blokes with straggly grey hair in un-ironed T-shirts. Somehow, they just about got away with it.

After anaesthetising myself with Old Speckled Hen, I turned in only to be woken just after midnight. Two of the drunken oafs staying at the hotel returned to their room next to mine and were struggling with the complexities of card key room access. They figured it out eventually, then debated the issue vigorously and at volume. I think it safe to predict that neither will be appearing on Radio 4’s ‘The Moral Maze’ any time soon.

One of them was a curious beast who discovered two interconnecting doors to my room, shaking the one locked from my side violently, bellowing that he “ken opun dis fookin’ doer” while his lady-partner explained the concept of adjacent, sometimes-connected hotel rooms to him. By 04:30 though, he has forgotten and tries to open it again, thinking it’s the bathroom as he’s “bostin furra pizz”.

Checking out the next morning after an excellent full-English – freshly cooked and the works – I said to the kindly owner/manager that I was planning to eat at the hotel the evening before, but was put off by his other customers. He shook his head and said he had to kick them out at 23:30. They’re locals and he has to tolerate them. I sympathised but suggested his options were either: a) cater for guests looking for a relaxing meal with a few glasses of nice wine and only one eye on the bill (two couples in the bar conformed to this description); or b) hang on to his current punters. Not both.

Having lived in the south-east since coming to London from Derbyshire for college in 1981, I’ve now had my fill of it. I’m all too aware that – to misquote Springsteen’s ‘Sinaloa Cowboys’ – “…one thing you will learn, for everything the south gives, it exacts a price in return”. And that trade-off is literal: a parodically high cost of living and relatively low quality of life in return for significantly higher wages and an undeniable breadth of opportunity.

So much so, I’m heading back a bit further north as soon as I can sell my flat. I'm not immune to the charms of the North. The majestic Cheviot Hills and apocalyptic beauty of the Northumberland moors the day before are but two examples and were humbling. A mate of mine has pretty much nailed it when he says that Derbyshire is about the perfect spot in the UK to live. Two hours by rail or road from all the places you tend to go regularly. Gentle countryside, posh pubs with good grub and largely welcoming locals when you want to stay put.

But a night in Chapeltown is a timely reminder of how grim The North can be.

At least we won…

PS: Ah yes, the match. The rain clouds had cleared by early afternoon bathing Hillsborough in the golden glow of autumn, Saturday Sun. This is my first look at the new team other than sporadic TV highlights so many unfamiliar faces to learn. But as a unit, they seem to represent the mid-point between the Dyche and Kompany eras. The intensity and tenaciousness favoured by the former (particularly in winning back lost balls) combined with some flashes of artistry and skill that the latter championed. Critically, they seem to have pace and physical strength in abundance. If another return to the top tier at the first attempt is the conclusion of this season, this vintage of Clarets may have more longevity.

PPS: Just in case anyone was wondering, the title is inspired by an iconic road sign in Barnet at the start of the Great North Road, after which the first town of any size was Hatfield. The sign is no longer but ‘Hatfield & The North’ was adopted by 1970’s Canterbury Prog-Rockers as their name who featured it on their 1980 album cover, ‘Afters’. The band appear fleetingly in Jonathan Coe’s peerless coming-of-age 2001 novel, ‘The Rotters Club’ which is also the name of the band’s second album.

I can’t find out who took this photograph (or who owns the copyright) to give credit / seek formal permission but please let me if you do

Photographer Unknown