Keith Waterhouse was born in a world that has now vanished - a soot-blackened, tramcar-rattling provincial city. It happened to be Leeds. Waterhouse was a true city-boy, deeply mistrustful of grass and trees. In early childhood, he would roam the covered markets, the carillon-chiming arcades. As a youth he came to know the cinemas and the theatres. Then, as a junior reporter, he trod the tiled corridors of civic power. Moving down south, his first impression of London was the sign in Piccadilly Circus; picked out in electric light bulbs, it was a heart-warming replica of the Bovril sign in Leeds. Keith Waterhouse gives a vivid impression of his younger self in what is as much the record of a city and a bygone era as of a person.