
I was in ’ere last night!” says a hungover Richard Hawley as I greet him in his favourite Sheffield pub: Fagan’s. It’s a cold January afternoon and the musician is standing at the bar, chatting to the owners of 40 years, his friends Barbara and Tom. It’s a classic old folk club, with wooden-panelled walls dotted with picture frames and Guinness memorabilia. Despite his claim of being worse for wear, the 56-year-old is looking dapper, the rock and roll bridge between Elvis and Alex Turner. He’s wearing a tartan bomber jacket, handmade by a friend in the US. His dark hair is slicked back. He’s grateful to still have this asset; “I’m quite relieved,” he laughs, “most of the lads I went to school with look like footballs with eyes!” Hawley quit hard liquor a few years ago, but that doesn’t mean he can
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