Saturday Night And Sunday Morning by Alan Sillitoe (Pan paperback edition, 1960)

I was sad to hear of the death of Alan Sillitoe this week. Like most other people I suppose, my knowledge of his work rests solely on two excellent books he wrote at the start of his career, and the two excellent film adaptations that have become almost inseparable from them.

I recall hearing Sillitoe on Desert Island Discs a few years ago, and he seemed the very definition of a quiet, down to earth sort of guy, completely lacking that ‘I’m a writer, I have opinions and such’ mindset that even the most quiet, down to earth writers usually have. Despite the fact he continued writing throughout his life, he didn’t seem terribly bothered about discussing his work, and I remember him saying something to the effect that he’d far rather be remembered on his own merits by his family and friends than by the public at large on behalf of a couple of stories he wrote over forty years ago and no longer feels much connection with, etc. So with that in mind, I’ll leave my attempted memoriam right there.

I haven’t had a chance to read any of the obituaries – I actually learned of his passing from a colleague in work who knew him personally, and who pretty much confirms the impression given above and recommends I should give some of his later works a go – but I wonder if any journos are going to make a point of noting that the author of ‘The Loneliness of The Long-Distance Runner’ died without fanfare in hospital in Charing Cross, whilst the hullabaloo of the London Marathon was taking place just down the road on the North bank?

Strangely, I was in same area myself at the time, with the intention – completely independent of either of those events - of buying a pair of running shorts for the first time in my life. Goddamn hippie synchronicity rubbish – why won’t it leave me alone?

Naturally the only solution is scan and post this lovely old paperback edition of Sillitoe’s OTHER great book – a design notable I think as an artefact of a period in British literature when simply writing a book with a working class protagonist was enough to render it *brave* and *shocking*. I also like Pan’s ever-so-gentle attempt at sleaze-selling on the back cover: subtle mention of adultery + slipping nightgown + invocation of ‘Lady Chatterley’ = THERE WILL BE SEX, FELLAS. Classy.


Anyway, flicking through ‘Saturday Night..’ for the first time in years, it’s interesting to note how dense it is with the kind of highly specific period detail that by rights shouldn’t mean a damn thing to anyone born after about 1960, and yet how strongly Arthur Seaton’s determination not to let the bastards grind him down still resonates with me, and with others I know who’ve enjoyed the book or the film. So thanks for this one Alan – books don’t come much better.