I hail from Sheffield, a city in the county of Yorkshire in the north of England. One of my favorite films is the 1997 comedy-drama The Full Monty. Set in Sheffield, this is the story of a group of unemployed steelworkers who decide to form their own amateur striptease act. This is a bittersweet film because it’s both sad and funny at the same time.

A somewhat similar movie, at least in terms of its bittersweet nature, is the 1996 comedy-drama Brassed Off. Set in the Yorkshire mining town of Grimley, this tells the story of a community facing the closure of its coal mine, which is the lifeblood of the town. At the heart of the story is the Grimley Colliery Brass Band. For the passionate and aging bandleader, Danny, the band is more than a hobby; it’s a symbol of pride, tradition, and community.

As an aside, "brassed off" is an informal British idiom meaning annoyed, fed up, or unhappy. This term is believed to have originated in the British Army during World War I. While still understood, the phrase is now considered somewhat dated and less common in everyday speech, especially among younger generations. It reflects a kind of period-specific British vernacular that has faded in modern times, although it still retains a nostalgic or regional flavor. Interestingly enough, “brassed off” saw a brief revival in awareness due to the Brassed Off movie, which played on both meanings: emotional frustration and a connection to brass bands, but we digress…

Both these films resonate with me in distinct ways. In the case of The Full Monty, I grew up in Sheffield while the steelworks were shutting down, and I remember the air of doom and despondency that permeated the city. With respect to Brassed Off, the band leader, Danny, reminds me of stories I’ve been told pertaining to my great-grandfather, who had his own bittersweet relationship with a brass band.

Allow me to set the scene, as part of which I just found some awesome photos on the Sheffield Star Newspaper website (“News you can trust since 1887”). I once visited their offices on a school trip in the late 1960s (this was back in the days when the type was set by hand), so I hope they won’t mind me presenting a couple of these photos here.

In the latter part of the 1800s, the primary means of transportation available to most people in Sheffield was walking or riding a horse-drawn bus. The roads at that time were very rough. Many were paved with hand-sized stones called cobblestones, so a journey on a horse-drawn bus was both noisy and bone-jarringly uncomfortable.

In the late 1890s, the Sheffield council decided to introduce electric trams, which ran on rails embedded in the streets and were powered by electric wires strung overhead. They persuaded the chief electric tram engineer in Bristol to relocate to Sheffield in 1887. This engineer’s name was Henry Shorland.

Since not many people used electricity in those days, the council had to have a special power station built just to run the trams. Sheffield’s first electric tram line commenced operation in 1899, with more and more lines opening over the next few years.

Why am I telling you all this? First, because Henry Shorland was my mum’s grandfather and my great-grandfather! Second, because sometime circa the 1920s, after being promoted to Chief Inspector, Henry was instrumental (no pun intended) in forming the Sheffield Transport Brass Band.

My mum tells me that her mum told her that this band was very, very good. They were so good, in fact, that they were awarded first prize in an annual competition held in London between working men’s brass bands from all over the country. At this point, the big bosses in charge of the Sheffield Corporation Tramways began to take notice. As part of this, they decided to replace Henry in his role as bandleader with a professional musician. Suffice it to say that Henry was mightily miffed; in fact, it would be fair to say that he was “brassed off” in more ways than one!

Henry died in January 1941. My mum says that her older brother, my uncle Harry, who would have been about 16 at that time, was very impressed by the fact that members of the band carried my great-grandfather’s coffin from their house at 54 Artisan View in the suburb of Heeley, about two miles to Gleadless Parish Church, with the rest of the band marching along playing their instruments.

If I ever get my time machine working again (you simply cannot find the parts where I live), one of the things I will do is go back to Sheffield in January 1941 to observe this procession and pay my respects. Meanwhile, I wonder what my great-grandfather would have thought when his band won the competition in the 1920s, to hear that his (incredibly handsome and awesomely talented) great-grandson would be writing a blog about all this around 100 years later.