Well the warm wind blew through the 60s. But it didn't blow much round here. Disappointment hidden in the jutting chin - 'we didn't want it all anyway'. White paint daubed on a gritstone wall the words of the prophets told. And we smiled to ourselves every time we walked by. The junction up on All Saints Road. 'It's a mean old scene'. It doesn't do much for business or the paper-crack West-End dream. The council took it down every now and again. But it was written up fresh and clean. Stick your head above the parapet. They're going to arrange to put you down. Bad stories in the clubs at night scrap metal in a rusting town. 'It's a mean old scene'. BD7 and October evenings of endless rain. The backed-up storm drains bubbling and hissing. And the cats all running for shelter fur matted and drenched. Twenty-nine years on and nothing's changed. Though in the end they took it down stone by stone. But we're still laughing all the way to the edge. Of our beloved unredeemable desperate town.