I’m a dustman. Not a columnist. Not a “content creator”. Not a bloke who sits there with a flat white talking about his feelings in long paragraphs. But I’ve got a voice. And I’ve got a life. And I’ve got things to say that don’t usually get let into certain rooms. For years, those rooms belonged to other people. The Guardian long reads. The clever blogs. The places where you need the right tone, the right education, the right kind of sentences. You can be smart as you like,
There’s a railway bridge on the Cally where trains thunder overhead while others earn a crust under em. Just a couple of little workshops. Most people walk under it now without a second thought .Brick. Steel. Traffic. Phones. But once, underneath those arches, there was a welding shop. And for a short while, I worked there. A pound an hour. Forty quid a week if you did the full stretch. Cash in hand. At the time I thought I was being robbed blind. But all my mates were on th
