Sarfraz Manzoor - Greetings from Bury Park: Inspiration for the film ’Blinded by the Light’

Manzoor leaps clear of clich by virtue of the story he has to tell, and the insight, compassion, humour and self-awareness with which he tells it... Wonderful Sunday Times

A fascinating, full-blooded and often funny journey into the heart of darkness that is Luton, that you dont have to be a Muslim or a Bruce Springsteen fan to get into Andrew Collins

A tender, funny book, which captures the weirdness of second generation British lives as well as anything else Ive read Hari Kunzru

Beautiful and moving... A book to make you believe that we are all more alike than we know Tony Parsons

A very personal narrative of love, separation, loss and guilt. At the heart of this book is the tragedy that only after his fathers death did Manzoor lay aside his resentment and begin to get to know him... In the gradual negotiation of freedom, beautifully depicted in these pages, Manzoor reminds us of the deep sense of hope and rationality that lies at the core of both Islam and modernism New Statesman

A perfect memoir, every bit as funny, sad and lyrical as I hoped it would be Emma Forrest

Manzoor handles all... with deftness, appropriate dollops of sentimentality and occasional outbursts of situation comedy... Wonderful Observer

As a musical tribute, this offers an interesting insight into the psyche of an avid fan but it is as a childhood memoir as painful in parts as it is endearing that Manzoors book really comes to life Independent

Theres a refreshing honesty and thoughtfulness to the writing, as well as flashes of humour Time Out

You dont need to be a fan of Americas blue-collar poet or a British Asian for that matter to enjoy this deeply touching memoir. It is one of the most honest depictions of second-generation experience I have come across Scotland on Sunday

It is the fathers obliviousness to the complexity of his sons emotional life that gives this affectionate memoir its substance... compelling... taking us on an enticing journey of emotional anxiety through lifes challenges Guardian

This memoir, by turns touching and hilarious, is testimony to the fact that humanity thrives in some of the most inhospitable places Sunday Express

Delivered with uncommon honesty and understanding Time

For my mother Rasool Bibi Manzoor and in memory of my late father Mohammed Manzoor with love and gratitude

And for my wife Bridget and my children Laila and Ezra: you are living proof that love is wild and love is real

BLOOMSBURY PUBLISHING

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First published in Great Britain 2007

This edition published 2019

Copyright Sarfraz Manzoor, 2007, 2019

Sarfraz Manzoor has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work

Song lyrics from My Fathers House, Independence Day, Candys Room, Prove it all Night, Bobby Jean, The River, The Promised Land, Point Blank, Hungry Heart, Darkness on the Edge of Town, Born to Run, The Ties that Bind and Brilliant Disguise by Bruce Springsteen Bruce Springsteen (ASCAP). Published by Bruce Springsteen Music/Zomba Music Publishers Ltd. Reprinted by permission. International copyright secured.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: eBook: 978-1-5266-1520-6

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For their faith: Alex Linklater, Ian Katz, David Goodhart, Karolina Sutton, Mike Jones, Colin Midson, the teachers at Maidenhall Primary, Wauluds Junior and Lea Manor High Schools in particular Mrs Lovett at Wauluds and Ms Crowther, Mr Cottier, Dr Dawson and Mr Judge at Lea Manor. John Ramm and the teachers at Luton Sixth Form College.

Janey Valentine, Mike Spencer, Adrian Moss, Susan Woodward, Robin Elias, Peter Barron, John Mulholland, Allan Jones, Jim Gray, Charlotte Black, Janey Walker, Mohit Bakaya, Mark Damazer, Lesley Douglas, Riete Oord, Roger Alton and Alan Rusbridger.

Gurinder Chadha, Paul Mayeda Berges, Lizzie Francke and everyone involved in adapting this book into a feature film.

For their friendship: Mark Alderton, Julia Brown, Harry Chapman, Rita Choudhury, Lisa Cook, William Devenny, Laura Fairrie, Tanveer Haider, John Hand, Aimee Hartley, Becky Hodges, Mary Jolley, Michelle Lanaway, Craig Lynch, Scott McKenzie, Katia Michael, Peter Morgan, Richard Murphy, Simone Pilkington, Kavita Puri, Mary Rahman, Mark Rickards, Grant Ritchie, Niamh Sammon, Robert Sebastian, Zoe Silver, Chy Soeng, Colin Stone, Emily Tofield, Mark Tomlinson, Paul Vine-Jones and Matt Zarb.

Thank you Amolak.

And thank you Bruce Springsteen.

contents

I awoke and I imagined the hard things that pulled us apart

Will never again, sir, tear us from each others hearts

My Fathers House, Bruce Springsteen

In the summer of 1995 I was twenty-three years old; an unemployed British Pakistani with shoulder-length dreadlocks, a silver nose ring and a strange fascination with Bruce Springsteen. It had been six years since I had last lived with my family; having left to study in Manchester there had never been a reason to return to my hometown, Luton. After graduating in economics I had assumed I would be deluged with lucrative offers of employment but these had failed to materialise. While my friends were beginning careers in accountancy and medicine I was most successful at being fired from low-paid temporary jobs: I had been sacked from a data-inputting job for only typing with one hand and doodling with the other, and fired from a credit control agency for having stuck an obscene Public Enemy lyric scribbled on a Post-it to my computer screen. The longest job I had was as a directory enquiries operator. Being a slacker had never been a specific career goal but it was a lifestyle to which I seemed suspiciously suited.

My parents had assumed that once I graduated I would return to Luton with a degree and a job, but despite my lack of career and cash I was still not willing to come home. In Manchester I was free; I could stay out late, play music as loud as I wished, wear black leather trousers and red velvet shirts and shake my dreadlocks to Lenny Kravitz. Once a month I would make the three-and-a-half-hour train journey back to Luton to see the family but only out of a sense of obligation. I was barely on speaking terms with my father and most of my conversations with my mother were about how I hardly talked to my father. When I walked through the front door of my parents home in my blue corduroy jacket with a Born to Run enamel badge pinned on its lapel and my rucksack on my back, my headphones still plugged in my ears, I could sense my fathers confusion. I knew he was thinking, What are you doing with yourself? and the worst part about it was that I could never explain it to him.

When I rang my father to tell him I had secured my first writing commission he was silent for a few seconds. How much will they pay you? he finally asked in Urdu. I never spoke in English to my parents.