MAN IN THE PIT – THE SHIREBROOK STATUE

November 8, 2025

9 minutes read

Shirebrook’s statue at Market Square isn’t just a statue—it’s a message. Let me take you to a place without politics, documents, and rehearsed speeches. Today, I want to take you to the land of art as seen through my eyes, your eyes, and AI eyes.

Brace for impact, usual reader of Shirebrook247 — this time, I’ll write about something other than local events and politics. Not only is the subject unusual, but I also took care to provide additional “unusualness” by feeding this article to an AI application that creates a conversation about this text between two AIs. You can listen to this unusual approach to reviewing articles here: https://youtu.be/qoX9b5fQdGQ

I strongly recommend reading my article AND listening to an AI conversation about it. We’re living in truly wonderful times: AI can read, criticise, point out controversial statements and even praise our work. Did AI like my text? To find out, you’ll need to listen to the podcast. Small disclaimer: everything in this podcast was created by AI based on my text and prompts. Even the video of the Shirebrook statue was created by AI; it’s hard not to appreciate how detailed and realistic that video is.

Next week I’m planning to go back to my usual publishing pattern, because I’ve found something very interesting on Shirebrook Town Council website. Something that no one before has mentioned or pointed out – even me! Something hidden deep in the archives of the town website. Something that puts my problems with the public servants of STC Town Hall in completely new frame.

I will not criticise or accuse anyone of anything. “I will just point out something so obvious that it’s painful that no one — including me — noticed it until now. No teasers, no spoilers — read about it next week!

That’s enough introductions. Let’s focus on star of the article: the statue on our Market Square.

CHAPTER: WORK OF ART
While the Shirebrook statue at Market Square was clearly created to honour those who worked in the Shirebrook Pit, you can argue there’s a difference between “created for” and “is about” or “speaks to”. Every piece of art can be read in different ways, regardless of whom it was created for.

One of the main advantages of art is that it speaks differently to all of us. Real art is never linear in meaning. It can, could, and should have hidden or shifting meanings. Art is not art if it doesn’t change with time — that’s why only high art can transcend time. Tolkien, Shakespeare, Monet, Chopin — all of them ended their artistic work years, sometimes centuries, ago, yet the influence of their art still wows people. We still find something new and inspiring even though the masterpieces of those artists were created so long ago.

I think our statue has already started to change and twist its meaning. I will show it to you by the end of this article. But without doubt, the entry point is that our statue was created to celebrate the mining history of the town. I accepted that the first time I saw it. But then… I saw art. I saw something else. I saw something more. Want me to explain? Read on!

CHAPTER: MEANING DEEPER THAN DEEPEST PIT
For me, the sculpture speaks to something far broader and deeper than any pit in the world. Its message reaches well beyond the “black gold” industry. It’s about something far broader than Labour’s attempts to appropriate this issue and use it as political capital.

Still — I think miners had it easy. Good wages, good pensions, cheap education, cheap housing, cheap everything compared to today’s life. They had loads of work and opportunities. Loads of money. What does the current generation have? Contempt? Rejection? High costs and low wages? MAssive immigration undercutting their wages and English way of life.

Think about it, miner — how much did you have when you were young compared to what today’s young person has, born in an era of mass immigration and high costs? In an era of ‘tolerance’?

Yes. This statue is about miners. But it’s also about something else — it’s about the modern man.

CHAPTER: WHO EVEN BUILDS STATUES ANYMORE?
The Market Square sculpture can be admired for free, day or night — and it should be. One of my strongest convictions is that art must be free to be art. Yes — some generous people paid for it, but after that, the creator and funders gave it to us all for free. The moment you have to pay to see art, it stops being art and becomes trade, a tax scheme, a business. A dirty, filthy cash grab instead of pure joy and thought. Yes, the sculptor was paid for his work — that’s fair — but once the piece exists in public space, anyone can stand before it without handing over a penny. That’s how it should be.

It’s also a rare example of a neglected art form. Travelling around Bolsover District, I can count on one hand the statues, sculptures, or monuments worth stopping for. In fact — never mind worth stopping for — there are barely any to see at all.

And let’s be honest: in recent years, the loudest voices from the lefty-anarchist crowd have been more interested in tearing statues down than putting new ones up. That’s why the fact that this project ever made it from idea to reality is, frankly, historic — not just for Shirebrook, but for the entire district.

CHAPTER: LOOK AT IT
To truly appreciate a piece of art, you have to look at it. Not once. Not in passing. Really look. Stop and study it — on purpose, more than once. When I could still get close to the statue, I went back several times. Different hours. Different weather. Daylight, sunset, darkness, rain.

Art speaks differently depending on your state of mind. Like a good book, real art changes with time and with you. To understand it, you have to return to it — again and again. It’s the same with people: you can’t truly know someone after one conversation, one meeting. You need to spend time with them. And even then, sometimes you still don’t understand.

Our sculpture shifts with the light. In the blazing glare of midday, it’s one thing. In the golden calm of sunrise, it’s another. At night, in shadow or under sudden rain, it becomes something else entirely. And it shifts again depending on you. When you’re relaxed and happy, it feels one way. After a fifteen-hour shift, bone-tired, wondering if you should shower or just collapse into bed — it hits very differently.

CHAPTER: EVERYTHING MATTERS
I’m no highbrow art connoisseur. But I do love looking at beautiful, unusual things. And ‘our’ sculpture is exactly that — beautiful and unusual. I like spotting the little details I missed at first glance. I like hunting for what some call ‘significant elements’ — those tiny touches an artist adds to give a work meaning, depth, and soul.

Even the smallest thing — a texture, a strange word, a subtle shift in perspective — is never accidental in the hands of an artist. If you think otherwise, you’re wrong. When I write my stories, every single word is chosen with care and purpose. My blog posts aren’t the same — they’re not crafted to be art. They’re chronicles: truth and my point of view, written fast and as close to reality as possible. But a sculptor? He can spend months — sometimes years — on a single piece.

I reckon a sculptor, holding a chisel and hammer, passes through countless states of mind while working. He doesn’t just bash at stone for the sake of it. Every strike is intentional. Every mark means something. Every movement carries weight.

CHAPTER: SCULPTURE — THE KIND OF ART ALMOST NO ONE CAN MASTER
Some art forms thrive on chaos — where the whole point is to overload the viewer with as many signals and layers as possible. The best example is modern painting. If you can hold a crayon and talk bollocks in a sophisticated tone, congratulations — you’re an artist now. Writing? Easiest art form there is: all you need is paper, a pen, and an overinflated sense of self-worth. Write a few half-coherent sentences and boom — you’re a poet. Photography? Point, click, add a filter, and you’re suddenly ‘capturing the human condition’.

But sculpture? Mate… that’s a whole different beast. You don’t just dab at a canvas, tap on a keyboard, or tweak brightness on a photo app. You wrestle with solid material — stone, metal, clay — forcing it into shape with your own hands and the most primitive tools. You need precision, patience, and a borderline unhealthy obsession to express emotion. Every strike of the chisel leaves a mark that can’t be undone, edited out, or polished away.

Our statue isn’t part of the easy, messy side of art. Sculpture is blood-and-sweat art. It’s soul-grinding work. At first glance, it seems clear and straightforward. But the more you look, the more you notice. Those few ‘significant elements’ start to appear — and suddenly, the message deepens.

CHAPTER: THE SIGNIFICANT ELEMENT
To most people, ‘significant elements’ sounds like pretentious art-world jargon. In reality, it’s one of the sharpest tools an artist has. Put simply, a significant element is a small detail that carries hidden meaning. It could be an object, a colour, a gesture, even a single word — something that seems unimportant at first glance but holds real emotional or symbolic weight.

Spotting it is like finding a tiny, simple key to a complicated lock — one that opens a hidden vault of meaning you didn’t realise was there. Once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

CHAPTER: SO WHAT’S THE SIGNIFICANT ELEMENT IN OUR MARKET SQUARE SCULPTURE FOR ME?
It hurts to think about it. The first time I saw that sculpture, I didn’t even notice it. Same with the next few visits. But there was one day when my eyes moved to see what that man with the pickaxe saw. I felt it instantly — this wasn’t just a tribute to Shirebrook’s mining past. Not for me, not for him. It slapped me in the face like a ton of bricks…

As with any piece of art, you’re free to agree or not. The artist might even bristle at what I’m about to say. But the moment a work is unveiled to the public, the artist loses the power to control its meaning. From that moment on, it belongs to everyone. You’re free to see whatever you see. And so am I.

CHAPTER: MAN AS A SLAVE IN DARKNESS
I see modern masculinity there — swinging a pickaxe in the dark — while femininity basks in the sunlight above, complaining how hard her life is. ‘Yas, queen!’ she shouts, standing on a pedestal. She stands at the top, surrounded by flowers, sunshine, and the laughter of children, while the man toils in darkness, doing work she won’t even touch.

We, modern working-class men, are down there, working our arses off in the pit just for women to pretend they do everything better than us. We make the world go around with nothing but basic tools and sweat. Pushing ourselves to the brink. All just to provide for her and the child. To build a better future.

I’m her slave. I’m nothing. I’m a modern man. A so-called toxic male. Alone in the dark. Hated. Dismissed. Forgotten. Diminished. Hated by the BBC, the Guardian, and every self-righteous institution that decides what’s ‘important’ these days. I’m just here to provide — and that’s it.

Just look at the man in the sculpture. Pickaxe in hand. Down there. Below. Working a wall so steep there’s no way to climb it. That’s me. That’s us — modern man. We’re here to work and bleed, to trade sweat, blood, and silence for the comfortable lives of women in high positions — some of whom spit on us with the furious blindness of modern-day feminism, perched on a pedestal of pure hate.

Look at that wall he’s working under. Look closely. The texture. The surface. Go ahead — get closer. What do you see? I see the marks of torn, filthy fingernails. That man is clawing at the earth with everything he’s got — tearing his fingers open just to give her and their child a lifetime of the sun. He doesn’t care about himself. He doesn’t care about the dark. He doesn’t care about the blood, the pain, or the sweat. He digs. He works. He gives every last bit of himself so she can have something better.

CHAPTER: END OF DAYS
Everything around you was built by men — everything except the children. And yet today’s culture — the left, the BBC, the whole damn circus — trashes men at every turn. We’re toxic. We’re dangerous. We’re useless. We’re at the bottom. In the pit. Digging. Good for nothing…

That’s what I see. That’s what this statue says to me: a man breaking himself to keep others warm. To please a woman. To raise the next generation. No complaints. No whining. No self-pity. Just work. That’s us. That’s the modern man.

This statue — whether they meant it or not — is ours. Not just for miners, but for every hard-working, forgotten, despised, depressed man who claws at that wall with his fingernails. If you have the opportunity to get closer to that statue — just look at the wall in front of him. What do you see there?

CHAPTER: STATUE—FOR THE NEXT GENERATION
To those who come after us: don’t forget what we gave. We carved that mountain with our bare hands. With our blood. With our dirty fingernails.

And all we got in return was… contempt.
So… we apologise for any inconvenience caused.