AA Gill of the Sunday Times is not everyone's cup of tea, but I think he hit it out of the park today with this small polemic:
George Orwell pointed out that Sheffield could justly claim to be called the ugliest town in the old world... But that was all right, that didn't matter. In fact, that missed the great city point, because Sheffield wasn't competing for city-in-bloom awards, didn't have coordinated hanging baskets, didn't yearn to be known as the Positano of the north. Sheffield was never a pouting model; it was a pugilist, a tough guy dressed in a couture of sweat, smoke and muck. It sounded like Vulcan's forge and smelt of brown-bitter breath. Sheffield arm-wrestled Pittsburgh, Cracow and Malmo; it was a city of steel.
This is where industrial steel was born, in the crucible of boiling heat and pyrotechnics; these are the original dark satantic mills you sing about. Sheffield was ugly because it did something magnificent... And then they took away the thing that Sheffield made and made Sheffield, that gave it its dirty, sexy power, and it was left just ugly and scarred and old and pointless... The mills were murdered, the furnaces smothered by Valley Centertainment, multiplexes and bowling alleys, with "several exciting restaurants".
The guilty gifts the southern governments gave to the deindustrialised cities of the north in place of work and self-respect never cease to astonish. There was the patronising childishness of sculpture parks and funfairs, the boating lakes and discount villages, and, most galling and humiliating, the museums of labour where grandchildren of craftsmen could pay to see the tools of pride and self-determination.