From the pen of Turlough Ó Maoláin ...

The Chronicles of Bulgaria

We Are Seacroft!


With my folks, I lived on top

Of the North East Gas Board showrooms shop

In a row of flats called Parkway Mews

From which we had outstanding views

Of the back of Ladbrokes’, the Pathfinder pub

And the brand new East Leeds Labour Club.


Our house wasn’t in so much of a street

As a labyrinth built from cold concrete.

Not posh like how it should have been.

They’d even gone and got the Queen

To come up on a 16 bus

And unveil a shiny plaque for us.


Such a shame the shopping centre

Didn’t turn out how it was meant to.

Lovely shops and a brass band stand

Was what the men in suits had planned.

But the whole world turned its back and scoffed

As the heart was ripped from our Seacroft.


In the busy indoor market hall

There was nowt I liked except the stall

Where I could spend my weekly wage

On ex juke box records from a golden age

By Bowie, Bolan and by Slade

Within half an hour of getting paid.


And then the stall where they sold bread

Was another place I’d go to shed

A bit more of my hard earned cash

On a sausage roll and just a flash

Of a smile from the girl who used to thrill

My teenage heart as she rang her till.


Sometimes we’d go to the Derrisford caff

For a bottle of Coke and a bit of a laugh.

We’d waste so many afternoons

In the mother of all the greasy spoons.

Talking rubbish. Talking soft.

Of a romantic world beyond Seacroft.



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