Memories for many in Sheffield will be rekindled. From the days of Mods, Skin Heads, Electronic Music to Break dancing and the crews that some might be familiar with, such as SMAC 19, Steel City Breakers, Scratch Mix, Hip Hop Rockers, the venues such as Limit, and yes Roxy, many others will be remembered.

Also, you might be in these books. You might be the one who helped Sid although you might know him by another name. It's just his name has been changed. You might be the one who nicked his addidas top or wiped you off the floor when he made his moves as a breakdancer, or never thought the skinny guy had a voice in him.

If you've been to Hinde House School, Earl Marshall, Sheffield College in Sheffield or you lived in Birmingham then you might have bumped into Sid. Maybe you jammed at Yellow Arch Recording Studios or the venues or Bar 8, or the Golden Ball. Some might know him as Cat Stevens friends or the guy with the voice like Van Morrisson or the artists that freestyled when singing, which is why many bands liked working with Sid. You might be the tall blonde girl from Grenocide or whom hanged around that area, and he met you in a fayre in Hillsborough, where you believed in his mates when they said he didn't leave his ex girlfriend but he did, but you just didn't believe him but his mates, who obviously didn't like it when he was having a good time. Or, you might be the one who saved him when he was 14 years old, when the house was on fire. You never know, you could've been his best mate. No one really got close to this guy for a reason, which is explained in the books.

You might be the mods that chased him and he gave you the run around, or the skin heads that helped him out when the cops tried to run him over. Or the one who niked his last twenty quid which he was going to buy milk for his kid. You might be the gal who use to wind him up at school, or the one who helped him out when he couldn't speak english. You might be the teacher where the steel ball hit your foot by accident or the teachers who ran for their lives when he was throwing for a Javaline contest, or the crowd who cheered him on, everytime he came last because you found out, some of the team couldn't be bothered to show up, so he had to do all the races and lost in all the races, but at least he tried..and turned up.

The journey begins in Yemen and it starts in the 1970's where Sid's parents leave their son behind as they fly to England due to the boom of the Steel Industry. The city they choose is Sheffield. What happens next is a story of courage, friendship, dreams and adventure, as Sid meets so many characters that opens his eyes to the world he will oneday meet.

Anyway, I'll paste link here when it is launched next week on web. Ready for everyone to read samples of and purchase. Check out what happens when goes to school and he doesn't know a word of English. You won't stop laughing especially when his mates explain to him what Rock music is.

Cover of book below:
http://img55.imageshack.us/img55/7642/comingsoon5fg.jpg (http://imageshack.us)

Hi Hook, this looks a fascinating read and am dying to get my hands on a copy. Will there be any pics of Sid because I'm bound to know him by sight. I went to Earl Marshal and Hinde House and was one of the sad ones that stood round scratch mix's lino whilst wearing Gregory Edwards top. I could go on and on but keep us posted on this book.

Hi Hook, this looks a fascinating read and am dying to get my hands on a copy. Will there be any pics of Sid because I'm bound to know him by sight. I went to Earl Marshal and Hinde House and was one of the sad ones that stood round scratch mix's lino whilst wearing Gregory Edwards top. I could go on and on but keep us posted on this book.

I will do. I just finished looking at his third manuscript, and yes, there might be photos of him. He travelled a lot in past, due to a lot of things, but one thing he did, which the newspapers got hold of and took photos of him;

Remember the first news years ago, in third world country, before anyone started raising money, there was a drought. I think it was either Somalia or Africa. Anyone, he was a body popper and breaker, so he got breakers and body poppers together, and got all students in Hinde House to come to a show and got everyone to pay a quid or two as they walked into Hinde House School's hall, and raise quiet a bit of monies.

Now, I know, Sheffield Star were the ones, that took the photographs. You see, he won't let even his family take photos of him. But I do have photos of him when he was older.

I got a chapter here he says I can use for others to read. Let me find the file and I'll put it here, so you read what happened in Hinde House school.

Here's a Chapter from the book

Bob Marley Studio on Wicker

I stayed with my mother and we’ve moved away from where Yemeni’s live to an area called Shiregreen. It was a large house, with three large bedrooms, a large kitchen and a living room. We had a small garden at the back and she would take her frustrations in making the garden work or keep changing the decorating of the house once every few four months and sell her furniture to buy new ones. There were times when she lost it and starts blaming me and the world of why she never made it in life, which says a lot about how I and my brothers, and sisters were a burden than a blessing. I’d know when she’d and just leave the house. You could just taste the bitterness in the air and a voice inside me whispering:

“It’s too quiet, get a clean break now.”

Most of my time was spent visiting youth clubs that had their own small recording studio but always I’d walk away without any help. I was either too young, or at times too old or the funding didn’t fit for my criteria. They never would turn a blind eye and just let me get out of the streets to learn about producing music, which is why many youths just started their own thing in their own homes. The thing was, I couldn’t do that where I lived. I was willing to do whatever it took; whether cleaning the youth club, doing tea, just help out so they can teach me how to get the beats and the rhymes that swam in my head onto the computer and make it happen but the people there saw their work as a job. And when it’s just a job, then you ain’t going to do your best to help anyone.

There was as a time when I visited a large recording studio, which situated near the City Centre. It was a Community centre for Black youths and everyone that worked there were from the African Caribbean community called Bob Marley. The recording studio is still there, situated at Wicker and the large mixing desk has died. They didn’t look after it nor the other equipment. So the communities lost something great there. I found one of the Youth workers that taught music production. I told him that I loved music, wanted to learn and not hang around in the streets but he said I was not black and I can wait to see if there are a space for me to join the class. I did just that and went everyday for one year to the centre and sat down in the corridor but he still wouldn’t let me join the class, even when many students didn’t turn up for the course. I use to wonder how these students were losing an opportunity but also deep down I envied them because of the break they had. While I was there I ****ed to another black producer to see if I can get help to produce a few songs to send as demos to record labels and even to pubs, venues so I can just make money doing what I love. He said that he will try to help but he’s busy, and I can sit where I am and wait until he wasn’t busy.

I kept coming to Bob Marley studio for another six month, sitting on the same chair and waiting and staring at the walls filled with posters of Bob Marley. I even bought a book on Bob Marley to find out about his life, which later took me to other books about different artists, I read about their struggles and it opened my eyes to realise dreams don’t come easy, so in a way these books began to prepare me for whatever was coming at me. Out of all the artists, I really loved reading about Ray Charles, Dylan and Bob Marley. Many who buy the artists work don’t know the heart of an artist. I must have read 50 books while visiting the studio.

The man I asked for help was always busy; busy surfing the Internet checking out the porn web sites or playing games. I thought if I showed how I eager I was and kept coming then I’d pass the test. I was that naive, thinking he was some teacher trying to test me out, the wise one, and was looking for a master student. There was no test. I was just not black enough and they didn’t bother to let me show them my lyrics and sing. In the end I stopped going. I went to the Yemeni Economic Centre in Attercliffe to see if I can get funding or a loan to get a computer, learn from books and make my music to send my demos to record labels but they couldn’t help me. At that very same time, Naseem or known as Prince Naseem was also doing the same but for a different field. Boxing. They gave him money to start him off but I didn’t get much luck. It wasn’t their fault. They just didn’t have the funding or really saw the world I was in. On these moments of wanting to better myself, wanting to find a way out, I thought about someone else, who could help me. My father.

I haven’t seen my father for sometime and I thought maybe he has changed, maybe if I go to him and tell him about my ideas, he would help me. I found his Telephone number from another Yemeni and called him. I told him that I wanted to buy a computer and other things to learn about producing music and also graphic design to set up in business. He told me to meet him at the bank in Firth Park at 2pm on Thursday. I was nervous because I haven’t seen him for a while. I stood waiting outside the Bank and he turned up, and I felt so happy because I saw my father coming to help me. I could feel the goose bups at the back of my neck. He didn’t say anything much and just told me to follow him into the bank. We waited behind the queue for twenty minutes and still, he didn’t **** to me much but kept looking at his watch and grinding his teeth. Something I started to do in my life if I was in hurry. The reception asked us to step up to the desk that was free and my heart felt good at that moment because everyone have let me down, but here I was with my father who was about to help me. I sat there waiting to hear the words from my father’s lips as the assistant smiled at us.

“Yes Sir, how can we help?”
“My son needs money.” Replied my father.
“Ok, how much you want to take out sir?”
“No. I don’t want to take money out. My son here wants a loan.”
“Your son?” The man’s eyebrows rose high as he stared down at me with a confused expression on his face
“Abba?” I said. “What are you doing?”
“You wanted money didn’t you?”
“But I thought..”
“You thought money grows on trees?”

He opened his eyes wide and gave me a piercing look. The same look I saw when I came to the airport in England years ago. My father hadn’t change and I felt small as the walls of the bank closed in. I bit on my lips to not shout and then looked back at the assistant. Even he was surprised at what my father did. I thought this would have been a new beginning and I could make him proud but I got nothing in return. I wished he said no from the beginning. I don’t know if he realised how much pain he caused me on that day. I don’t think he realised that he sowed a seed of division between us. It was like the stars that guided me were plucked out of the sky and I was left in darkness. The sweat slowly trickled down my forehead and I could taste the salt as it jumped onto my lips.

I stared at the male assistant shuffling his papers, trying to pretend he didn’t hear a thing. I got up from the chair and walked out of the bank. I wanted to wait outside and have it out with my father but nothing good would have come of it but words that I’d remember in years to come. I couldn’t believe he’d do such a thing. I thought fathers suppose to encourage their children but my father was just the way he has always been; unsupportive and really wasn’t interested in anything I did or in me. I walked away, confused at what had happened. I arrived at my mother’s house to find a whole heap of mess. My mother ordered new furniture and the old furniture was outside the front door. I squeezed through and walked straight up the stairs to write another a song.

I look back at these moments and wonder how the years have flown by but the memories, the feeling of disappointments, my father’s words and even the surprised look on the bank assistants face still swim in my mind. They would remind me of what not to be and to understand that parents are not perfect. Far from it. My father missed a great opportunity to grow close to his eldest son and I had no experience, wisdom then, or understanding on how to comfort my soul on such let downs. That is why I grew even more bitter in the years to come and never relied on anyone.

Many youths today just want that bridge to be built between parents and themselves. I meet so many that felt their parents don’t know the first thing about building friendship with their own children. They become strangers to their children and all there is, is that weird feeling of respect. There is no love in this respect, no relationship, no magical feeling or times when they can sit and laugh with their own parents. Some like I have experienced would sit with their own parents and still feel they are alone, invisible and their inside is screaming, “I can’t wait to leave home!” That’s what many parents face today and I suppose, if they don’t change will keep facing in years to come.