I grew up in Grenoside, one of the most northerly parts of the city. If Sheffield had been Westeros (Game of Thrones), the Wall would have been situated in Grenoside. My parents always worked in public service, my dad a nurse and my mum in care. The importance of public services was made clear to me and my brother from an early age: we were taught the importance of looking after each other. I’ll always be grateful to my parents for teaching us that.
When I look back on growing up as a kid, I swear it was always sunny. The 90s seemed a sunny decade to me, and it felt like an exciting decade to grow up in. When I reminisce about that time, I remember playing out late until dark, putting on musical shows in my auntie’s kitchen and re-enacting whatever goal I’d witnessed at Hillsborough the previous Saturday. Magical times in my head.
My mum’s side of the family were all from Hillsborough but eventually settled in Upperthorpe. I’d spend pretty much every school holiday there. You’d walk onto the estate off Addy Street and within a quarter of a mile radius you’d have all my family’s houses – nan-nan, aunties, uncles, cousins – all within 100 yards of each other. Marcus Smith (AKA Sheffield artist, Matic Mouth) lived right in the middle of all of them. I can’t really remember a time not knowing Marcus; he’d float about the estate and I’d be mesmerised by the fact that he was a relation of Johnny Nelson, a world champion boxer! Sheffield was always the boxing city. Maybe I’m guilty of over-romanticising these times, but Upperthorpe felt like a tight-knit community, much louder and more vibrant than Grenoside where I lived.
Grenoside did feel slightly separated from the rest of the city, in both a geographical and a mental sense. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that years later when the music scene erupted nearly all the bands that emerged were from the northern parts of Sheffield: Grenoside, High Green, Ecclesfield and Chap. Maybe the disconnect did something to the psyche? I think there’s something in that.
As a teenager, I remember often walking to the top of Jawbone Hill, one of the highest parts of the city. Here, you’d get one of the great views over the seven hills. Sometimes I’d be accompanied by my brother. I remember us once sharing a headphone each, he insisting we listened to The Verve’s ‘This is Music’. I can still remember the lyrics as we looked down from our vantage point:
“I stand accused just like you
For being born without a silver spoon
Stood at the top of a hill
Over my town I was found”
I’d sit there, looking down at the sprawl below, wondering what was going on in the nooks and crannies of the city. Depending on where you are in the city, you get a different perspective of what is around you as a whole. I think our hills encourage creativity, and they’ve definitely shaped the way we think and view ourselves. We have an awareness that is unique to us. You’re never lost in Sheffield – just look up or down and the landscape will remind you of who you are and where you’re going… literally.
The top of that hill in Grenoside also provided me with the perfect view of Hillsborough, the home of Sheffield Wednesday FC. It was a place of mystique and magic to me as a kid. In the early 90’s the team was magical. The moment I watched Chris Waddle play I was hooked – the way he twisted and turned; I was in awe of him. If I’d known at that age just how special it was, I’d have cherished it more. You assume that it will last forever, but it doesn’t. Nothing does.
You’re never lost in Sheffield – just look up or down and the landscape will remind you of who you are and where you’re going… literally.
Wednesday recently played in a playoff semi-final second leg at Hillsborough and we were 4-0 down from the first leg. I went to my parents in Grenoside for tea before the match, and I orchestrated it so I could walk via that hill on Jawbone on the way to the ground. I refused the offer of a lift and walked it alone. I said a little prayer to myself as Hillsborough came into view: “If there is any magic in the air tonight, please let it be over that old ground.” We won 5-1 and went to Wembley via a penalty shootout. I’m telling you, there is magic on that hill!
Me and my brother went to Notre Dame School, which is on the other side of the city to where we lived. It had a reputation of being posh, but that wasn’t the reality. It was, however, an absolute melting pot of everyone and anyone. You had Irish Catholics from Shirecliffe sitting next to the African-Caribbean kids from Pitsmoor, with people from Stocksbridge, Dore and everywhere else in between. It opened my eyes and ears up to different people; it was genuinely life-changing.
My school reports all read the same: “Chris is a likeable person with lots of potential. However, he sometimes lacks focus and will often play the class clown. He needs to apply himself more.” Our lass reckons it’s still applicable, even now!
The moment I watched Chris Waddle play I was hooked – the way he twisted and turned; I was in awe of him.
As a teenager, I played football for a team called Ecclesfield Red Rose. A lot of significant relationships were forged via this team. It was managed by Ian Carnall, dad to Joe and Louis Carnall (Milburn). The assistant manager was Rob, the dad of Tom Rowley (Milburn, Arctic Monkeys), and Rob is the man who years later would inspire me to create Steve Bracknall, the comedy character I portray online. Red Rose also had Jamie Cook (Arctic Monkeys) in the squad and Joe Green (Milburn) at right back. This team would later go on to make up a large part of the Sheffield music scene in the mid-noughties.
It was around this time that the Milburn lads started putting their own gigs on in town at places such as The Boardwalk and the Grapes. The bus to take us to Snig Hill would cut right through the heart of north Sheffield. On the way back it would depart bang outside The Boardwalk, stopping at Hillsborough, up to Grenoside before looping back around High Green and Chap. Just like Red Rose, we have a lot to thank this bus for. Everyone seemed to catch it: our kid, who would later form Reverend and the Makers; Andy, Alex and Helders, who would become Arctic Monkeys, and even members of The Harrisons. That whole scene seemed to be cemented on the back of a mainline!
If you were growing up in Sheffield at that time, you were either in a band, working for a band or going to see a band. Between 2002-2004 it felt like only our little part of the city knew about it, but fast forward a year and the secret was well and truly out. Tunes like ‘Mardy Bum’, ‘A Certain Romance’ and ‘Heavyweight Champion of the World’ had been written, released online and our little group of mates were now at the centre of national hysteria.
Don’t get me wrong, these were brilliant times for our city; but looking back, on a personal level and with the benefit of hindsight, I think I felt a little lost. Having spoken to friends since, I don’t think I was the only one. The period between 2008 to 2015 is a bit hazy and strange for me; I wasn’t sure of who I was, what I wanted or where I was heading. I started my own band, The Violet May, but I don’t look back on this time too fondly. Crazy stuff was happening but internally I was struggling with my alcohol intake.
Between 2002-2004 it felt like only our little part of the city knew about it, but fast forward a year and the secret was well and truly out. Tunes like ‘Mardy Bum’, ‘A Certain Romance’ and ‘Heavyweight Champion of the World’ had been written, released online and our little group of mates were now at the centre of national hysteria.
Throughout all this madness I was known as “the kid smoking the fag on the Arctic’s album”. It consumed me in all honesty. I know that may sound ridiculous from the outside looking in, but that’s the truth. Don’t get me wrong, being connected to that record put me in situations and in the company of people I could never have dreamed of, but I found it difficult to have the same conversation over and over: “How did it come about? What’s Alex really like? Do you still see the lads?” Having to talk about other people’s success on a daily basis starts to take its toll and it mashed my head up. At the same time, my ego needed it bringing up; it kept me in fantasy land, meaning that I didn’t have to face up to the reality of me or my drinking.
I started to become bitter towards Sheffield. It was as if I’d fallen asleep on the back of that mainline bus, missed my stop and all my mates had got off and left me there. It’s probably the only time in my life where I felt resentment for this amazing city. In hindsight, Sheffield was never the problem, the problem was me.
In 2019 I was encouraged to seek help for my alcoholism. I did what was suggested by some very kind Sheffield folk, who had been through a similar experience, and it changed absolutely everything. I didn’t realise the support that was on offer in this city and I sought help from people that I identified with. It gave me a sense of perspective, just like that hill on Jawbone Hill had done previously.
Immediately after putting the drink down, I studied Occupational Therapy at Sheffield Hallam University. The influence that the universities have on Sheffield shouldn’t be underestimated. I’d spent all my life in a city that was famous for its creativity, yet I’d never had any creative output of my own. Steve Bracknall gave me that. I’d had the idea years before, but, due to my drinking, it mainly consisted of lying in bed and thinking about it, hating myself for doing nothing with it and worried that no one would like it. Sobriety has given me the chance to get it out there. The response online has been incredible, and it’s allowed me the opportunity to work with a production company. We will pitch the project to TV in the coming months.
Who knows if it will succeed? It doesn’t really matter in a way. What matters is that I’ve got something to call my own. Bracknall couldn’t be based in any other city; there’s something about his humour and charm that is quintessentially Sheffield. I think he’s suffering from a lot of the same issues that I had: unfulfilled potential, no creative outlet and, at times, an over-inflated ego. I couldn’t imagine it coming from any other part of the UK. It has been a conscious decision to make Sheffield central to the story, to have normal everyday folk be a part of it.
Sheffield has provided the backdrop for all the highs and lows of my life thus far; it’s been a constant. It’s so important to me that I’m from here. I feel like we are at an important crossroads for the city. I hope we don’t try and follow in the footsteps of Leeds or Manchester. I’m by no means a city planner but it feels like our strengths lie in being creative – whether that be steel, music, film or whatever. We are innovators; we make things here, things of quality. That should be at the heart of any decisions that are being made.
“I’d spent all my life in a city that was famous for its creativity, yet I’d never had any creative output of my own. Steve Bracknall gave me that.”
During lockdown, I had this constant urge to walk in and around Sheffield. I would take walks to the empty city centre, to Upperthorpe and Hillsborough. I’d just soak it up and look around me. I think I was probably looking for some sort of security in what felt like really insecure times: that same feeling of when you hug your mother. That’s what Sheffield gives me – security. I’ll always be grateful that I get them feelings from my city. We welcome people here, and we should be very proud to call it home.
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