Place explored through a personal selection of the lives, novels, art, architecture, poetry and history inspired by England's industrial era.
Rav Sanghera wrote a play about it, Gerard Benson wrote two poems about it, and I’m standing with my back to the Victoria Hotel next to Fran, and we’re staring at it. At first glance it appears to be apologising for even being there, tucked away below the road. Apologising for replacing the double arched roof and fluted columns of the demolished Bradford Exchange with a functional angular box. But maybe Bradford Interchange is not the blight on the spirit that it thinks it is. https://placesandculturaltraces.com/what-ship-is-this/
Beryl Bainbridge Bradford Castleford CLR James Comedian Ian Smith Cultural Geography Ellen Wilkinson England is Rich Featherstone George Orwell Gerard Benson Get Carter Goole Halifax Harry Hopkins Huddersfield Iain Nairn Isle of Axholme Jack Common JB Priestley Kellingley Kevin Boniface Killingworth Manuscript in a Red Box Minty Alley Morning in the City Nelson Newbiggin-By-The-Sea Newcastle Normanton Pontefract Pre-Raphaelite Psychogeography Robert Westall Rotherham Sean O'Brien Selby Social History Southwold Stuart Maconie Ted Lewis The Division Bell Mystery The Rocket Tom Puddings Vermuyden
Places and Cultural Traces 
When I first arrived I Bradford at around 20003 they still had the spiral ramp walkover to the town hall and centenary square that was beautiful in its off the shelf modernist way. I miss it, and the closed underpass that went through the hotel. I have also always been fascinated by the underground Broadway that leeds away from the main entrance past Gregg’s and the public toilets to nowhere. The main bus hall scintillates with hifi echoes which amplify white noise like an old modernist swimming pool. On occasions where conflict would rear it’s ugly head the atmosphere reverberated like a cathedral to social unrest.
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When I first arrived I Bradford at around 20003 they still had the spiral ramp walkover to the town hall and centenary square that was beautiful in its off the shelf modernist way. I miss it, and the closed underpass that went through the hotel. I have also always been fascinated by the underground Broadway that leeds away from the main entrance past Gregg’s and the public toilets to nowhere. The main bus hall scintillates with hifi echoes which amplify white noise like an old modernist swimming pool. On occasions the atmosphere reverberated like a cathedral to to any voice that bobbed above the background and emphasised itself through joy or anger. In some dystopian paradise the halls would be filled with neon market stalls and the dead ends would lead to subterranean nightclubs.
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