Middlewood Road, 5 September 2025

It’s rare enough for me to travel to Hillsborough, let alone to reach this part of Hillsborough, assuming it’s still considered to be Hillsborough, which I think it is, as Hillsborough Park is on the other side of the road. But parts of what some people would consider to be Hillsborough are in what some people would consider to be Owlerton, including Hillsborough football ground, which comprises one of the main stopping points on my great circuitous journey today. I note in passing that other parts of what some people would consider to be Hillsborough are in what some people would consider to be Malin Bridge, but that’s another story, about as interesting as this one.

I think I saw this object on the opposite side of the road as I was travelling along Middlewood Road beside the park, feeling slightly anxious about not missing the turn-off for the football ground, more properly the Hillsborough Memorial, which is situated next to the stadium. I was compelled to cross the busy road because the spectacle was so striking, and it is the principle of the strength of the spectacle calling that usually guides my selection of photographic subjects.

Although the subject of this photograph is striking and unusual, and although these factors are amplified by the fact that the toy shop it stands outside is set in a row of terraced houses, which somehow make it even more pronouncedly visible, it is a flash-in-the-pan type of spectacle, signifying little beyond its immediate singularity. I suppose you could reflect that toy shops are far less common now than they used to be, or wonder why there is an abiding fascination with Lego, if it is an abiding fascination rather than a restoration of interest. Both of these considerations could be viewed as relevant, but both of them would be false, because the reality of the experience is that the object calls, is photographed, and is gone from further consideration.

I crossed the road, took the photograph, crossed the road again, and resumed my journey.

I say I crossed the road, took the photograph, crossed the road again, and resumed my journey, but I took this photograph of the previous subject’s companion before proceeding on that course.

Neepsend Lane, 5 September 2025

I mentioned my recent realisation that Nursery Street seems to have more in common with Neepsend than it does with Kelham Island, although Kelham Island occupies the central ground in these three joined locations. Parts of Neepsend are more rundown, to the point of dereliction, than Nursery Street, and it is one of these parts that we see here. Before going on to wax lyrical about the building we see in the photograph and whatever occurs to me as a result of doing that, I observe that in the sequence of images I collected of the Neepsend–Kelham Island–Nursery Street conjunction, there were no pictures of Kelham Island. I attribute this to the blandness of the Kelham Island redevelopment area, which means that it lacks the picturesque qualities of its undeveloped next-door neighbours.

The building stands at the bottom of Neepsend Lane, if we consider the junction with Penistone Road to be the top. It emerges like a totem of dereliction as one walks alongside the generally hidden river on the ghost-haunted path that leads from the outskirts of Hillsborough into town. The fire escape seems to be in better condition than the building it serves, although the brickwork remains in largely good condition and it looks like it would not take too much effort to create a site worthy of occupation. If it was somewhere else, it could be turned into an arts centre. If it was 100 yards to the right, it might follow the Kelham Island template and be remodelled as a ground-floor restaurant with studio apartments above it, marketed as luxury city-living opportunities. But being where it is, it’s destined to remain crumbling into oblivion until it’s deemed to present a threat to the public, whereupon it will be demolished. I don’t suppose there’s any chance that Neepsend will be redeveloped until all the buildings have gone, empty space being deemed to possess greater value than industrial heritage.

The objectively meaningless UMPA! sign at the very top of the building strikes me as a macho proclamation of possession, although what is possessed is nothing substantial or concrete, but rather a place in a subculture. I had not previously conceived of this idea of tag-based graffiti as macho possession, which I find surprising now that I have thought of it, although what is possessed is a fleeting form of insignificant unreality.

Nursery Street, 5 September 2025

I’m on a little road off Nursery Street. It’s not a very pleasant place. It has a threatening and unnerving air about it, even though it’s the middle of the day, or whatever part of the day it was when I took the photograph. I would not choose to stand where I stood to take the picture at night time. Having said this, there probably isn’t much in the way of threat. There aren’t many dwellings nearby. There isn’t really much on Nursery Street that would encourage people to walk down it. There’s the Harlequin pub by the bridge. There’s Aizlewood’s Mill, which serves as a conference centre during office hours (I don’t suppose office hours are what they were five or six years ago). There’s a large church, which I’ve never seen anyone going into or coming out of. And there’s wasteland, and a few small industrial units, offering desultory opportunities to low-level entrepreneurs, who come and go without staying for long. It’s one of those places common in post-industrial cities, which would have been far busier when industry was thriving. Industry hasn’t been thriving in this part of Sheffield for several decades now, and it hasn’t been tarted up as part of the Kelham Island development plan, or whatever it’s called, because it lies just outside the redevelopment perimeter. It occurs to me that Nursery Street is similar to Neepsend, which lies on the other side of Kelham Island. I hadn’t thought of that before. Urban development is arbitrary and piecemeal. That’s no surprise. Maybe there will be a Nursery Street and Wicker Development Plan one day, although I doubt it will come any time soon.

The River Don flows on the other side of Nursery Street from the building that is pictured here. Just behind the river, there is an unbroken series of steel and glass buildings. I think most of them are offices, but some of them provide accommodation. The path by the river is a bit less rundown than it used to be but it’s not very well kept; perhaps the developers of those glass and steel buildings are presenting the riverside as a wildlife haven, in order to minimise their financial outlay on upkeep.

Anyway, the point I wanted to make before digressing to describe the immediate environment is that some places that are not objectively dangerous, on the grounds of being free of people, who are the only creatures you’re likely to encounter on a daily basis that might do you harm, can nevertheless feel dangerous. This is because we are encouraged to live in a state of fear, or perpetual watchfulness, that renders us easier to control.

Ryegate Road, 16 September 2025

I see the stamp on an iron drain cover imprinted on a leaf that has fallen from a tree and turned yellow. It’s relatively easy to make out IRONWORKS LTD, but the beginning of the name of the ironworks is missing. I think it might have been Charlton, but maybe I’m making that up after the event. It’s possible that I didn’t register what the name of the ironworks was. I wanted to make sure that the whole of the leaf was in the frame, and that the leaf in the frame filled up as much space as possible. My primary focus was on the lettering imprinted on the leaf. It’s possible that I merely noticed the lettering and did not pay any attention to what it said at the time of taking the picture.

I assume that the imprint was made by a car driving over the leaf and the drain covering beneath it. The car must have been close to the pavement when it caused this phenomenon to appear. The presence of the leaf must have preceded the coming of the car and I assume that the neatness of the lettering indicates that the car that made the print did not return to where it was stationed before the photograph was taken.

The fact that the text-conveying leaf has been photographed makes it an unusual object, worthy of note. It would have been easy to walk past it without registering its presence, in which case you could say that it would not have existed at all, despite being where it was all along, or for however long it was there. Maybe there’s something in that stupid, empty, vainglorious conundrum about the existence of the tree in the forest, subject to some act of destruction, I think, whatever it is, you know the one, or the saying about it, the idle rumination of some clapped-out philosopher or something, probably hailed as a wise and insightful encourager of thought for some reason.

I can assure you that I did not walk out with the intention of searching for leaves imprinted with text from iron drain coverings, or texts transmitted through any other means. It would not have occurred to me that such leaves existed, such leaf-and-text conjunctions or configurations, but they clearly do; the evidence is indisputable.

Although the leaf and text unified object clearly exists, strictly speaking, its provenance remains a mystery. My speculation regarding what caused the leaf print to appear seems eminently reasonable, but there could be other explanations; indeed, from your perspective as a viewer of the photograph, there are even more possible explanations for the leaf-text than there are for me, because as far as you are concerned I, the photographer, could have created the leaf-text as a deliberate, subtle art work, whereas for me, the photographer, this possibility does not exist, because I know I did not do it, and I know it did not happen.

A typical street in Crookes, 18 August 2025

The world is a terribly noisy place. One assumes that there must be silent places somewhere in the world, and one speculates that these places would be peaceful, but this assumption and speculation is merely wishful thinking. There is no silence. There are varying degrees of noise. And the places that most closely approximate silence are not peaceful, but frightening. The noise that you find so objectionable is necessary for your sense of security, which is illusory. There is no security. There is no silence. There is no peace.

This street is a terribly noisy street, although it is quieter than many streets in this city, in this suburb. Some of the noise is generated by animals. By and large, this noise is acceptable. The noise of cats and foxes is perfectly okay. The noise of birds can be quite charming, although it depends on the species of bird making the noise. Blackbird song is often delightful. Magpie cackle is less attractive. And it can also depend on the time at which the bird noise is made, be it song or cackle, which is also song. What I mean here is that bird noise is sometimes unwelcome when it intrudes upon the desire to sleep, after experiencing, or more likely enduring, a sleepless night, more likely a night of little sleep. The most objectionable animal noise makers are dogs, given to pestilent, moronic, repetitive barking that travels far to spread its idiocy. But the objectionable noise generation of mangy curs is as nothing compared to the noise pollution created by humans.

Human-generated noise comes in many different forms. There is the noise of traffic, which is often accompanied by the noise of horrible music blasted out by the drivers of these cars. There is the noise of passers-by in conversation, which often consists of a form of imbecilic shouting of inane nonsense in the name of fun, or having a good time. And then there is the noise of labourers intent on the pursuit of property development: replacing roofs, cutting up wood to feed log burners, or replacing forecourts outside buildings with different forms of flooring. The stone blocks that we see here have been delivered noisily, piled up noisily, and will be treated with the noisy accompaniment of machinery in order to form a pattern on the ground. They will remain in this state for a while, and then the restless noise makers, be they the current property owners or their successors, will revisit the whole noisy process again.

Botanical Gardens, 9 August 2025

I have lived in the beautiful suburb of Crookes for all the time I have lived in the beautiful city of Sheffield, save for an 18-month period when I lived in the Garden Flat of a mansion-like building a short distance from the Botanical Gardens. I liked the secluded feel of the flat. The entrance to the property was situated off a narrow little lane, through a door set in a wall that ran the full length of said lane, the wall being made of brick and stone and flint. You rarely saw anyone about. Occasionally, a surly fat goth would traipse past the wall, with his girlfriend following a few steps behind him. More rarely, I would be leered at lasciviously by the old woman who lived in the big house next door as I cut the grass of the garden that gave the flat its name with my top off.

Although we lived so near to the Botanical Gardens, I did not visit them very often. I think I was averse to the crowds that gathered there, and I was also a lot fitter in those days, which meant that my typical walks were longer and more ambitious. And when I did go to the Botanical Gardens, I did not bother with the glasshouse. It’s possible that the glasshouse was in a state of disrepair at this time, and that entrance was forbidden, or that it was in the process of being redeveloped. I can’t remember. It played no significant role in the interior world I constructed from the details of the world outside me.

After a prolonged period of being far removed from the Botanical Gardens, and not visiting them at all, they acquired an interest they did not possess when I lived a two-minute walk away, to the extent of seeming rather exotic. The crowds of people that I once found so off-putting remained in evidence, although the constituent elements of the off-putting crowd, meaning the individuals that comprised the group, more properly groups, were different. Different but the same, I would say, although that’s ideology rather than fact. But the fact that this was a one-off visit rendered the crowd less objectionable than it would have been otherwise, to the extent of not being objectionable at all, but rather possessed of a certain interest, as a representative sample of the people who go to the Botanical Gardens on a warm, sunny day in late summer.

It was clear that there had been considerable investment in maintaining and developing the gardens since the last time I was there, and whoever had undertaken this work had made a good job of it, and should be commended for their efforts. One of the most notable results of this scheme of improvement was the redesigned and refocused glasshouse, which had been thoughtfully furnished with a wide variety of exotic plants to form a series of micro-environments, consisting of examples of flora that might flourish in different climatic conditions. What we see here is the bloom of a very large cactus.

Broomspring Lane, 2 August 2025

I took a photograph of this noticeboard several years before taking this one, and I have discovered that my memory of the original photograph served to block out telling details from the image presented here. When I think of this place, which is obviously rarely, I think of it as it was when the original photograph was taken, not as it is here.

The two main differences in the photographs are what is displayed on the noticeboard and what can be found beneath it.

As you can see, there is a small flyer announcing a Yorkshire March for Palestine. I can’t make out where the march will be held, or when it will take place. I imagine it will take place in Sheffield or Leeds. Maybe the organisers have something more ambitious in mind: a march from Sheffield to Leeds, perhaps, with several stops along the way. Sheffield seems to be a pro-Palestine kind of city, and Crookes is a pro-Palestinian suburb. Messages of support for Palestine are displayed in the windows of several houses in Crookes, and the car of a property owner who rents out student houses flies small Palestinian flags. The messages of support consist of representations of Palestinian flags alongside slogans such as ‘From the Pennines to the sea’. Maybe the Yorkshire March for Palestine will follow a route suggested by that slogan, from Penistone to Bridlington, or Scarborough, for example. I assume there must be some Zionists in Sheffield, but I have not seen a single proclamation of support for the state of Israel in all of my wanderings around the city.

Sheffield is also anti-fascist. Right-wing demonstrations take place here, but they are never well-attended. Counter-demonstrations staged by anti-fascist groups always outnumber the gatherings of hateful racists and other individuals lacking empathy and compassion. This is not the case in other parts of South Yorkshire, like Rotherham, for example. And a significant number of Reform councillors were elected in the last Sheffield council election, generally in the more deprived areas of the city, which does not bode well for the future.

We can also see a collection of empty beer cans beneath the sign. I count eight of them. I don’t know if there are any others, out of sight. I suspect not, as the four-can unit is a standard measure. I can’t make out a brewer’s logo on the cans, and they look very much like an unknown supermarket’s own brand to me. It’s strange that they’re in this place, which does not seem to constitute a comfortable open-air drinking place, and it’s strange that they’re so neatly gathered together, rather than being strewn about with reckless abandon, or placed in a bin. I can’t think where the nearest public litter bin might be. There are far fewer litter bins around than there once were. I wonder why the drinker or drinkers did not take the empty cans home and dispose of them there. Perhaps he or she or they does or do not have a home or homes to return to.

Leah’s Yard, 2 August 2025

My mind is like a sieve, as the saying goes. What I mean by this is that I struggle to remember things. Sometimes I fail to remember what I was thinking about the moment before forgetting it. This could be attributed to incipient dementia, the consequences of a long history of consuming mind-altering substances, or the effects of childhood trauma. Then again, it might simply be a case of forgetting what is not worth remembering. Thinking about it, I remember numerous things, which suggests that I remember everything important. I remember that my original intention was to write, “I remember everything important, which is not very much,” but my assertion that I remember numerous things scuppered that plan, although it could be a case of remembering many things, including everything important, which is not very much.

Anyway, the thing that I cannot remember in this instance is what this place is called. I know exactly where it is, and I know that it is a much lauded city centre development, which does not deserve the praise that has been heaped upon it by lying councillors and local journalist lackey stooges, and I remember referring to it by name in relation to a suggested scheme to redevelop the nearby John Lewis building as the Lord Blunkett of the Post-Industrial Wasteland combined Workhouse, Indoctrination Centre and Human Zoo. I remember what the place looked like when it stood derelict, recalling in particular the feral cats that used to hang about here, and I can even remember what it was like just before the abandonment that led rapidly to dereliction took place, when it served as a ramshackle emporium of purveyors of hippie tat, some of whom moved to the Forum and other parts of Division Street, and others of whom went to the wall.

Regardless of what this outpost of Sheffield New Jerusalem is called, what it is can be clearly observed, and what it is can be described as an emanation of nothing, a collection of ridiculous little shops selling stuff that no-one in their right mind could possibly want. Fortunately for the merchants, hardly anyone is in their right mind these days (including me, you might argue, what with my mind being like a sieve and all, although I’ve managed to present my memory issues as a positive attribute, rather than a deficiency, which is a common tactic resorted to by writers, who always present themselves as heroes, even when they’re not necessarily doing this on the surface). The keepers of these stupid little shops in this absurd little cobbled yard (I’ve remembered what it’s called now) will be sustained for a while by the mindlessness of the populace, compelled to consume whatever is foisted upon them, and they will also benefit from the special introductory deals offered by the council that persuaded them to take up residence here, before fading into the same oblivion entered into by their mercantile forebears.

I find it interesting that the most striking feature of this shining example of urban redevelopment is a weathered stone-topped brick staircase leading nowhere.

Fargate, 2 August 2025

I am at the top of Fargate. I call it the top of Fargate, and if we accept this as an accurate place name, then the bottom of Fargate is situated at what used to be known as Cole’s Corner, the legendary meeting place hymned by Richard Hawley, purveyor of paltry and purposeless pop myth. Well, the myth does serve a purpose – to enable Hawley to sell records through recourse to empty nostalgia.

This merry-go-round seems to show up every year, the most striking feature of a small collection of fairground rides that serve to entertain children on school holidays. They’re joined by other rides in the Peace Gardens, when the gardens are temporarily rebranded as Sheffield by the Sea, a vaguely entertaining notion, as Sheffield is located on the central vertical axis of England, and is therefore as far away from the sea as it could possibly be, given its position on this axis. The part of England that Sheffield is situated in is quite thin, for want of a better expression, meaning that other places on this vertical axis are probably even further away from the sea than Sheffield is. I don’t know what the nearest seaside town to Sheffield is. It might be Cleethorpes, or Skegness. I think that many citizens of Sheffield prefer to head for Bridlington or Scarborough or Whitby when they act on their formulated desire to see the sea, rather than heading for Cleethorpes or Skegness, and who can blame them?

If we consider Sheffield’s position in relation to Britain as a whole, tracing imaginary lines from north to south, as well as west to east, we could reasonably argue that Sheffield is located in the centre of Britain.

Broomhill, 21 August 2025

John Betjeman is reported to have said that Broomhill is the prettiest suburb in England. As we can see, not everyone agrees with him. I suppose it’s possible that hell might be pretty but that doesn’t seem very likely. And hell does not exist as a place apart, a place of substance. Hell exists as an idea, or a state. The idea of hell can exist anywhere, regardless of how pretty it might be. The experiential state that could be described as hell likewise. The state of hell is best described in ‘Paradise Lost’, where Satan relates that hell is wherever he is. A very interesting notion. A magnificent poem, although it drags a bit. A monumental achievement, despite its failings. A proper work of art, literature of the highest order.

I agree with Robert de Grimston – This very earth is hell and humanity is the devil. I agree with the sentiment in general, in context. Not all of earth is hell and not all of humanity is the devil, but particular parts and certain individuals, the places and people that I particularly dislike (and whatever it is within me that causes this futile hostility to arise).

As we can see, not everyone agrees with the sentiment of the primary signwriter. One activist commentator seeks to subvert the message by adding an ‘s’ before ‘hell’ to make ‘shell’ but ‘hell’ retains its integrity despite the addition. This amendment seems pointless to the point of moronic. Another contributor counters the assertion by resorting to arbitrary, insistent counter-assertion, and a third individual seems to opt for heaven rather than hell by means of expressing a preference. It looks like other responses may have been lost to weathering.

John Betjeman also wrote a crummy poem called ‘An Edwardian Sunday, Broomhill, Sheffield’, an example of the jangling rhyme that Milton was so disdainful of. Unlike ‘Paradise Lost’, Betjeman’s work has nothing to recommend it at all. I suppose that’s one of the inevitable consequences of being a writer who writes for a living. They occupy a state that demands they churn out all kinds of shallow nonsense for cash, and then attempt to con prospective readers with the idea that it possesses something of value.