This may come as a shock to many, but I have never seen a single moment of Game Of Thrones.
Yes, I gather it is amazing, yes I know it’s possibly the best thing ever committed to the silver screen and yes, you’re going to implore me to watch it because “I don’t know what I’m missing.”
Save your breath. It ain’t happening. People to see, places to go, kinda thing.
What I do know about GOT (see, I at least know the lingo) is that it starred (or did) Sheffield’s very own Sean Bean.
Now the reason I know this is because our Sean features in a series of those viral web photos, known as “memes” to the uninitiated.
You know the kind of things, the wild-haired guy with the outstretched arms proclaiming “aliens,” Star Trek’s facepalming Jean-Luc Picard, the “condescending Willy Wonka” picture.
There’s people out there not party to When Saturday Comes
Sean has the pleasure of starring in two of these.
There’s the one of him cloaked in fur, clutching a sword and looking all weatherbeaten, the caption for which generally begins “brace yourselves...” and then his “One Does Not Simply...” speech from Lord Of The Rings (if you are still bemused, Google them).
Now a certain generation are going to grow up with these pictures as reference to Sean’s huge body of work (indeed, both my sons know him for that and that alone).
There’s an entire swathe of people out there who will never be party to his “better let him live his dream and play for Sheffield United fantasy” flick When Saturday Comes (actually, possibly a good thing) or him apparently uttering the infamous line “Come lass, let’s mek luv while t’bacon fries” as rough diamond groundsman Mellors in a decidely saucy, sex-fuelled 1993 TV telling of Lady Chatterley’s Lover with Joely Richardson.
And that’s not to mention him being the voice of the purple route trams, although I wish they’d allowed him to keep his Sheffield tones a little bit more and refer to it as ’erdings Park (no H).
So brace yourselves folks, let’s embrace Sean for his many fine works.
One does not simply want to be remembered for a picture.
Signs of the times are a backward step
A sizeable chunk of my time in Sheffield each day is spent ascending or descending the steps at the railway station, ready to begin my working day or end it and head back home to Doncaster.
To make movement around the station easier and safer, there’s a set of “up” stairs for those exiting and a set of “down” stairs for those entering.
They’ve been helpfully marked with blue and white arrows telling you which side to use, or red and white no entry signs if you’re not supposed to go down then.
Imagine my surprise the other morning then, when a flustered, floppy-haired hipster type came crashing down the “no entry” steps, his ridiculously long scarf flapping in my face, accompanied by well-aimed push and a mumble about “being late for my train”.
You won’t be surprised to learn there was no apology and I had to restrain myself from giving him a swift boot in the back, although that said, that might have helped him to his train a little faster.
Add to this the irony that the “down” steps were distinctly empty while the “up” stairs he was descending were distinctly sardine like.
No entry? No brain more like.
You have to worry for the future if this is they type of selfish soul we’re inflicting on the world. Read the signs sunshine, and no-one gets hurt. Understand?
Is Marty McFly in charge of the trams?
I was waiting for a tram the other day.
Handily, there was an electronic sign to give me a clue to its arrival.
“3 mins” it announced. I glanced again a few moments later to find it rising to “5 mins.”
Another glance, seconds later, and it was “2 mins” before settling on “6 mins” and promptly arriving.
Who’s in charge of the signs? Marty from Back To The Future or Doctor Who?
Overheard on the city’s streets this week...
“When I first came to Sheffield, I got off the train and thought that WANdisco was some sort of nightclub.”
“Chris Wilder doesn’t really look like a football manager, he looks like the kind of bloke who’d do your plumbing.”
Man on train, doing crossword to fellow commuter: “You know in tennis, how do you spell deuce?”
Fellow commuter: “J-U-I-C-E, like er, juice.”