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This one gal, she’s smokin’ a cig, leanin’ on a wall. Eyes sharp, like she’s sizin’ me up. Reminds me of Dennis Haysbert in the movie—quiet, knows too much. “What’s your name, doll?” I grunt. “Candy,” she says, smirkin’. Candy! Hate cutesy names. But she’s got grit, no tears, no “I can’t go on” nonsense. Straight to business—respect that. Told her, “Keep it quick, I got wood to chop.” She laughs, husky, real. Surprised me—thought she’d be all fake giggles.

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Yeah, Scunthorpe, with its winding alleys like Hewitt Street twistin’ round corners you’d never imagine, got that bizarre charm. Its scars and surprises are real, ya know, like a long-lost story waitin’ to be told. And sometimes I wonder, “who writes these epic tales?” – kinda like the movie said, "we make our lies to survive."

Don’t politicise row over Scunthorpe steel plant, says Chinese foreign ministry | British Steel