Larissa to Athens - Crutches - Gig 3

One last gig before home. I was sat in my grotty hotel room in Larisa, frantically refreshing the Wi-Fi, trying to figure out where tonight’s secret squat show in Athens was happening, how I was going to get there — and where the hell I’d sleep once I arrived.

I ended up booking a really basic hotel just off Syntagma Square, close to the Metro, which made for an easy getaway to the airport in the morning. Then I jumped on a train and, 3.5 hours later, arrived in the organised chaos of Athens.

I’m truly useless with offline Google Maps (no roaming), so what followed was a long, sweaty odyssey — hours of walking, asking punks for directions in mangled Greek, and chasing vague leads. At one point, I wandered through a massive street market snaking up a hill, full of people shouting over fruit stands and fake designer handbags. Classic Athens — loud, beautiful, a little overwhelming.

Somewhere during that chaos, I helped pull people off an escalator pile-up. An older man fell, and before anyone could react, a slow-motion comedy of errors unfolded as others stacked up behind him. No one was seriously hurt, but for a few seconds it felt like a punk gig version of human Tetris.

Eventually, and somehow, I found the venue. I got there around 8pm during soundchecks, but the organisers immediately clocked my camera and gave me a stern warning: “No photos of the crowd. Bands only — and only if they agree.” Fair enough.

By 9, the place was heaving. Rammed, buzzing, and honestly a bit too packed for comfort. The first band was a local black metal outfit — very theatrical. Then came Bloodtrace, who delivered a tightly wound, fast-and-heavy set. I’d never heard of them before, but they clearly had a following and I found them surprisingly fresh—mid-tempo hardcore punk built on strong guitar lines and dual vocals.

Finally, Crutches took the stage and just ripped the place apart — a total blur of limbs, screams, riffs, and sweat.

Beer was cheap and paid for by donation, and no one took the piss — just gave what they could. That small gesture of collective respect felt emblematic of the entire tour.

Around 1 a.m., I said my goodbyes — hugs all round — and told the band I’d hopefully see them again in Japan this September (yes, I’m fully embracing my role as groupie at this point).

My hotel was meant to be a 30-minute walk away. I got lost, took a few wrong turns, and 90 minutes later I stumbled into Omonia Square — a place I instantly recognised from when I lived and worked in Greece back in 1990. It felt surreal, like my past had stepped quietly into the present, just for a moment.

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Thessaloniki to Larissa - Crutches - Gig 2

 Friday, October 18th, 2024 – Larissa, Greece

pre-gig Crutches

After a couple of hours' sleep at my apartment in Thessaloniki (in a super comfy bed), I caught the 12:25 p.m. train to Larissa. It was a smooth 90-minute ride through open countryside and distant mountain backdrops — quiet and scenic, a welcome pause after two chaotic nights.

Larissa itself turned out to be a bit of a surprise. A beautiful city, full of Roman ruins and hidden archaeological sites scattered across parks, sidewalks, and plazas. You don’t need to search for history here — it’s literally built into the modern-day streets. The vibe was laid-back, a touch stylish even. A slower pace that didn’t feel sleepy, just settled.

I checked into Hotel Acropol, tucked away on 142 Eleftheriou Venizelou — €25 for the night. It was hot and a little grotty, the kind of place that might once have been described as ‘classic’ but now mostly felt forgotten. It wasn’t glamorous, but it did the job. After dropping my gear and rinsing off the last two days of sweat and smoke, I went out for food.

Found an upmarket restaurant nearby and devoured a huge Greek salad with chips and cold beer — all for the same price as the room (not cheap by any stretch, but absolutely delicious). My waiter and I got chatting. He clocked my accent and asked where I was from. One thing led to another, and soon we were swapping stories about Kythera, the island I’d lived and worked on back in 1990. I left a good tip. He’d earned it.

Later, I tracked down Crutches, already mid-meal with their tour hosts: Kristo (tonight’s promoter) and Nik Godgrinder. Nik plays guitar for Greek d-beat legends Dishonor and stands at least 6'4". When I attempted some pidgin Greek, he replied in full throttle. I didn’t catch a single word — thankfully his English is excellent. We laughed it off over beers, swapped border-crossing horror stories, and hung out while the band prepped for the show.

Since these gigs are held in squatted venues, they’re only advertised by word of mouth or encrypted text — too much exposure and the authorities come crashing down. Kristo drove me to the venue, a squat hidden beneath a canteen on the university campus on the outskirts of town. It felt secretive but welcoming — the kind of place where the smell of beer and cigarettes signal you’re in the right spot.

I was with the band long before the show started, caught the soundcheck, and stayed through the entire evening. We shared beers and jokes as the place began to fill with sweaty punks, wandering dogs, and local misfits.

πάνω από πτώμα μου

The night kicked off with a return set from πάνω από πτώμα μου (Over My Dead Body), who were just as impressive as the night before. Their dense, dual-vocal hardcore sounded even heavier inside the squat’s concrete walls. There’s no performance flair — just grit, sincerity, and seismic noise.

In between, a band called Never Trust from Athens played a fairly generic thrash metal set. Technically fine, but energy-wise, things dipped a little. The crowd drifted to the grassy exterior, conversations started to drown out the riffs — the vibe just didn’t land.

Then Crutches hit the stage. Tighter than ever, absolutely feral. Their 25-minute set was pure controlled chaos — Oskar in full attack mode, Tom and Andreas’ guitars slicing the air, and Dan pounding the drums like a war machine. It was hot, packed, loud, euphoric — the sound bouncing off every graffitied wall. I was grinning like a lunatic from the first chord to the last feedback squeal.

After the gig, we swapped stories, laughed about border dramas, and someone passed around a bag of crisps like it was sacred. At some point around 3am, Kristo gave me a lift back to my hotel hovel, ears ringing, face aching from smiling.

Tomorrow: the final show in Athens. I’ll try to rest… but probably won’t.

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Sofia to Thessaloniki- Crutches - Gig 1

 

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Thursday, October 17th, 2024 – Thessaloniki, Greece

Tom, me, Andreas, Oskar, Daniel - Crutches

This day felt like a long week rolled into one. I woke up feeling a little melancholy — missing Charlie. I texted to say I was in Sofia and his reply was,
"How is she?" — totally summed up his sense of humour (and he’s only 11!).

By chance more than anything, I successfully navigated the Sofia metro and walked to Serdika bus station, where I grabbed a FlixBus for a bargain €8.50. A five-hour journey later and I was back in Thessaloniki — this time staying in an apartment about 5 miles out of the city centre, close to tonight’s venue. It cost €45 and even had a washing machine, which I took full advantage of. I must be becoming civilised in my advancing years.

On a less punk note, I stupidly forgot to pack the charging cable for my (now antique) iPod, and I’ve just finished my book (too good to put down for long). So, for Sunday’s flight home, I’ll either need to find another form of entertainment… or just sleep.

Before heading to the gig, I took a walk to soak up the buzzing, semi-urban area — full of life, a bit chaotic, but in the best way. I arrived at the venue early and met up with Crutches — it was good to see Tom, Andreas, Daniel, and Oskar again. They even gave me a little present: a miniature but mighty potent bottle of Underberg comes in tiny 20ml brown bottles, each wrapped in distinctive tan paper. The idea is to drink it all in one go, like a shot. Absolute legends.

I first came across Crutches at Manchester Punk Festival last year. To be honest, they scared the shit out of me — full-on, feral Swedish d-beat that came at you like a freight train. I watched from a safe distance. But then I got to know them properly at Levy Punk Weekender and saw the other side — humble, funny, principled, brilliant people. After that, I decided to self-appoint myself as Chief Groupie and Hanger-On for this short Greek tour.

The Greek DIY punk scene is the real deal. Self-run, self-funded, and beautifully organised — a total lesson in community. This three-night run across Thessaloniki, Larisa, and Athens is held in squatted venues with zero police interference — so long as they stay under the radar. Ask too openly where the venue is and you might get shut down, or at least looked at sideways.

But once you’re in, you’re in. Tonight’s gig is in a crumbling building reclaimed by people with passion. It’s heaving inside, wall-to-wall with punks, no stage lights, just raw energy. Beers for €1.50, a makeshift bar, and someone offering shots of homemade Tsipouro that tastes increasingly decent with each swig. A giant sign above the bar reads:
"You’ll Never Drink Alone."

Opening band πάνω από πτώμα μου (“Over My Dead Body”) don’t even have a digital footprint yet, but they tore the roof off. Their dual-vocal, slow-burning hardcore is dark, thoughtful, and heavy as hell. They finish abruptly, without preamble or posturing, and I liked them all the more for it.

Then it’s Crutches. And fuck me, they were unreal.

No lights, no frills — just 25 minutes of pure sonic destruction. Oskar’s screaming and climbing the walls, Andreas and Tom murder their guitars, Dan is a machine on drums. The crowd goes off. It’s sweaty, joyful, totally fucking unhinged — in the best possible way. The band nearly sold out their entire t-shirt stash tonight. Says it all.

Their message is clear: unity, resistance, fuck the fascists. Their latest album Dösreveljen carries that spirit front and centre. Their tagline is “Mangeling For Freedom”. Someone asked me what mangeling means. I wasn’t sure how to answer — not in English, let alone Greek. But I know this: after seeing Crutches, your brain feels like it’s been through a mangle. And weirdly, that’s a good thing.

Vienna to Sofia

 

16th October 2024 – From Bites to Flights

Sofia

Up at 7am, still nursing the aftermath of Monday night’s mosquito war — bites everywhere, even on my thumbprint! But there was no time to wallow; I had to make my way across sprawling Vienna to catch my flight.

With no data roaming on my phone, I was flying blind — no Google Maps, no easy route-finding. Vienna is a huge city to navigate without digital help, and disoriented as I was, the metro system seemed like a puzzle I wasn’t equipped to solve at that hour. So, I hailed a taxi to the main station and then caught the CAT train to the airport — €20 for the privilege.

I arrived 2.5 hours early but couldn’t settle. Still buzzing from last night’s gig, still itching from the bites. Then, out of nowhere, a kind soul at the Aegean desk handed me a free coffee voucher. That man is a saint.

Boarded and landed in Sofia smoothly. Before the day slipped away entirely, I wandered through central Sofia for a few hours, soaking up the architecture, energy, and clear blue skies. One of the highlights was standing in front of the Ivan Vazov National Theatre (pic above) - a spectacular neoclassical building with towering white columns, golden sculptures, and a postcard-perfect façade. It was hard not to be impressed by its elegance and grandeur — a total contrast to the DIY punk vibes of Vienna the night before.

Exhausted but content, I watched the light fade across the square, before I found a bed, regrouped and headed for some well-earned rest.

Rested (kind of), I set off on foot for the 3-mile walk back into central Sofia. On the way, I stumbled into good fortune — a bar, and inside, a Scottish drinking buddy named Archie, an ex-army vet with a thick, impenetrable accent that I had to work hard to interpret.

Over a few beers (and a whiskey for good measure), we found common ground quickly — Brexit, racist cunts, and twats in general. Archie was particularly bitter about the post-Brexit travel restrictions. “Used to be able to live here year-round,” he grumbled, “Now I’m limited to 90 days at a time.” (Or whatever the damn rules are.)

It was one of those random encounters that makes travelling so unexpectedly rewarding — politics, pints, and pure honesty from a stranger turned instant mate.

The long walk back to my hotel — which I think was one of those EasyJet-affiliated ones — helped clear my head a bit. I was tucked up in bed by 10:30pm, ready to hit reset on another wild day.

Thessaloniki to Vienna - make no (The) Mistakes

Handsome chap on the Thessalonian waterfront

14th October 2024 – Love Not War

Tim picked me up on his 1200cc BMW bike from Bangor to Henryd — the journey was absolutely freezing! After I warmed up and slept it off, he repaid an old favour by giving me a lift to the airport in his van. Legend.

Flew out to Thessaloniki, which is where I am now. Just showed my passport and walked straight into blazing hot sun. Not got an itinerary today, so I’m quenching a few cool beers at Sherlock’s Bar on the waterfront.

Got my bearings pretty quickly and checked into Hotel Bastardos for €37 a night. Thessaloniki is 2 hours ahead of the UK, so I had time to crash for an hour, then headed back out to find the bars, catch some football on TV, and sink a few beers. A properly chilled day — didn’t want to waste it, even though I was a bit fooked. Made the most of it, especially with Vienna on the horizon tomorrow — currently sitting at a brisk 14°C!

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15th October 2024 – Smoke, Noise & Candles: A Vienna Tuesday

I had a running battle last night between the heat, the mosquitoes, and myself — and to top it off, the hotel was on one of Thessaloniki’s busiest roads. Sleep wasn’t impossible, but definitely not restful.

After a shower and breakfast, I wandered the city one last time, then made my way to the airport for the next leg: Vienna. Currently reading The Ripple Effect by Alex Prud’homme — a fitting travel companion.

Landing in Vienna took a little recalibration — I got my bearings eventually and found my €37 room. Dropped my bag, freshened up, and headed out into the night. Destination: Club 1019.

Ross and Shane (The Mistakes) and me

Tucked (not so quietly) behind a petrol station, Club 1019 is apparently a jazz venue… though tonight felt like anything but. “We’ve never played a venue with lit candles all over the bar,” guitarist Shane Creech of The Mistakes said, as we clinked bottles and caught up. The decor may say jazz, but tonight the crowd was pure punk — Vienna’s fringe dwellers turning out in force, demanding volume.

First up were the local Bunt Cunnies, firing off a mad mix of punk-reggae-pseudo-ska. Their song What’s Your Damage? launched with the screamed line:

“You suck! Cos you never shut up, you ignorant bastard, you selfish bitch,”

A disjointed, chaotic blend — almost jazz — fitting for the venue. Later they slid into Walking on Sunshine halfway through Skateboard, just for the fun of it. Bass-heavy, full of bounce, they kicked the night off with real intent.

Then came The Mistakes — five gigs into their eleven-date European tour and sounding tighter than ever. These boys from Poole have got the punk rock engine firing on all cylinders. Kip Drewson from Bournemouth grunge act PlasticGold is standing in on drums — 20 years old, full of energy, and he didn't miss a beat.

They play punk the way it should be played: loud, fast, angry, joyful, and absolutely infectious.

Ross rasps out:
“I’m not quitting, I’m not quitting, I’m not quitting…”

That’s I, Savage — stuck in my head since they finished. It’s an anthem. Everything they played felt like one.

Drink Up, Boys! sounds like a shouty Oi! drinking tune — but it’s more layered than that. The lads — Ross, Shane, Gould, Angus and Kip (in Lewis’ absence) — serve up the reality: we’re all dying, so drink up and live it while you can.

What a set. What a performance. The perfect length — left us wanting more.

The Mistakes in full flow

And more we got, courtesy of Bloodstrings from Aachen, Germany. Blasting through tracks from their Heartache Radio album, their animated gruff vocals and wild double bassist turned the venue up another notch. Not quite psychobilly, not quite punkobilly — but definitely some kind of ‘obilly’! Brilliant energy and a fitting finale.

Apart from the eggs benedict back in Greece this morning, I hadn’t eaten all day — too much going on. Vienna was asleep as I walked back through empty streets, head buzzing. What a night.

Irish Road Trip #3 - Limerick → Cork → Waterford → Kilkenny → Carlow → Dublin → Holyhead

Didn’t sleep much last night—around 11:30pm, a gang of lads decided the quiet Limerick street outside our Airbnb was the perfect place for an impromptu five-a-side match. Thumping footballs and echoing shouts bouncing off the tarmac well past midnight. Not ideal.

We hit the road groggy but determined. First stop: Cork—though we didn’t make it to the city centre. Instead, we found our way to The Lough, a big urban lake tucked into a residential area. What a spot!
We planned for a quick look, ended up staying a couple of hours. It was packed with birds—swans, ducks, geese, pigeons, and at least a dozen other feathered creatures I couldn’t identify. Some looked prehistoric.
Charlie had a blast watching them squabble and glide around. It was peaceful, in a slightly chaotic, honking kind of way.

From there, we cut across the country to Waterford, which turned out to be properly pretty. Compact, bright, and full of little winding streets and river views. Great spot for a mid-afternoon wander.

Next up: Kilkenny. And wow.
The castle looked like it had been airlifted out of a fantasy film—stone towers, grand lawns, and more pigeons (always pigeons).
As soon as we got close, Charlie grinned and shouted:

“Oh my God! They’ve killed Kenny!”
Absolutely nailed the reference. I nearly cried laughing. Definitely one of the day’s highlights.

As the sun began to drop, we made our final push up to Carlow, winding into the outbacks, down narrow lanes where phone signal feared to tread. Our final Airbnb host greeted us with a warm smile, handed over the keys, and that was that.

...We slept for twelve solid hours. Didn’t even stir. Not even if Kenny himself had come back (again).

And then came Thursday morning, and with it, the rain.
The weather we’d managed to outrun all week finally caught up with us—sheets of it, falling hard and fast across the Carlow countryside. No official storm name, but it felt like it deserved one. Let’s call it Charlie’s Curse.

We didn’t hang about. Packed up the car, zipped our coats tight, and hit the road. It was a 90-minute motorway blast up the M9, then the M7/N7 into Dublin, wipers screeching and Charlie navigating through steamed-up windows and crumpled road maps.

In the capital, we dropped the hire car with all the subtlety of a getaway crew in GTA

“Ditch it and go!” Charlie shouted, half-laughing as we legged it toward the city centre.
Somewhere between chaos and catharsis.

With a few hours to kill before the ferry, we explored Dublin—Grafton Street, lively as ever with its mosaic of buskers and shoppers; stood by and looked dizzyingly up at the Spire. Had a wander through Temple Bar, cobbles slick with rain but spirits high. Dublin’s got that energy that doesn’t pause for weather or reason.

We ducked into a pub—classic Irish wood panelling, gold trim, a fireplace in the corner and red-faced drunks at the bar saying 'Feck' a lot. It was here that Charlie, always the opportunist, covertly sampled Guinness for the first time.
His verdict?

“It’s like fizzy gravy.”
Not quite a fan. But a rite of passage all the same.

Eventually, we made our way to the port for the 2:45pm ferry. The rain softened to a drizzle as we boarded, the boat rumbling to life beneath us. Ireland slowly faded from view—green hills blurring into sea mist.

It felt fitting.
A week of stories, diversions, birds, castles, and barely working wipers.

We left the Emerald Isle behind and cruised back toward the green green grass of home.

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Final thoughts?
A cracking trip.
We may have zigzagged half the country, missed a few turns, and paid far too much for pizza—but we also saw things we never expected and laughed every single day.

Charlie’s already planning the next one.
Can't wait

Irish Road Trip #2 - Maynooth → Naas → Midlands → Limerick

Woke up to a calm, quiet morning out in the countryside near Maynooth. Our Airbnb hosts, Austin and Mary, were pottering about again—and their deaf dog gave us a fond farewell nuzzle before we hit the road.

First stop: Naas, just a short drive south. We decided to treat ourselves to breakfast, which turned out to be ridiculously expensive (again). At this point, I’m starting to think Ireland has some sort of unspoken surcharge for eggs. But coffee was good, and it gave Charlie a chance to re-fold the map, which he’d taken very seriously since assuming his role as Chief Navigator.

From there, we started weaving our way across the drizzly Midlands, avoiding the motorways where possible, taking it slow and stopping whenever the mood struck. A proper road trip day.

We passed through Kildare, where we had a mooch near the historic cathedral. There’s something quite stately about the town—compact but full of little architectural details you’d miss if you blinked. Portlaoise was next—a bit more urban, with a lived-in feel. Not a postcard town, but full of energy and proper local life. Charlie got tooted at a couple of times in his Welsh football shirt! We didn’t hang around long, just enough for a snack and a stretch.

Then, a slightly longer drive brought us to O’Brien’s Bridge, which straddles the River Shannon on the border between Clare and Limerick. The bridge itself is old stone, stretching across the water with just enough wobble in the narrow lanes to make it exciting, we took a long walk along the riverside path I'm guessing the bridge was built by O'Brien...

Eventually we rolled into Limerick. First impressions? Honestly lovely. The sun was dipping a bit by the time we got there, and the city was glowing in that soft Irish light that makes everything look a little enchanted.

We wandered around town for a while, taking in the mix of Georgian buildings, river views, and that slightly scrappy charm that makes the place feel real—not polished, but full of character.

Our Airbnb for the night was a converted townhouse owned by Sinead—she was lovely, and the place had a relaxed, bohemian feel. After dropping our stuff, we took a short walk around the local streets, then headed back into Limerick proper for the evening.

Dinner was a budget classic: Tesco Meal Deal, eaten by the River Shannon.
Not fancy, but sitting on the riverside wall with Charlie, watching the water roll past and the city lights starting to flicker on—it was perfect in its own low-key way. Simple, quiet fun.

Charlie, in between bites of his sandwich, looked around and said:

“Ireland is like Wales… but with a better economy.”
Can’t argue with that, really.

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Tomorrow: Waterford (hopefully), and more of Charlie’s map-led mystery tour of the Irish countryside.

Irish Road Trip - Holyhead → Dublin → Maynooth-ish

 

And we're off.

After weeks of vague plans and even vaguer maps, the Ireland road trip officially began today.

We left the car parked back in Holyhead, strategically placed just far enough from the ferry terminal to dodge the savage parking charges. Already feeling clever.

The P&O ferry to Dublin was enormous — more shopping centre than ship — and Charlie was in his element. He tore around the decks with wide eyes, exploring everything like he was on a secret mission. We had an expensive dinner on board (standard ferry stuff — fine, but nothing to write home about unless you're writing a complaint).

After a smooth 3.5-hour crossing, we docked in Dublin Port, grabbed a bus into town, and made our way to pick up a hire car.
And then came the pain: €250.
I swear, at that price I thought I was buying the bloody thing. Still, we needed wheels. I handed over the dosh, cursing the fact I could've brought my own car for that money, and all its comforts.

Charlie climbed into the passenger seat, road map already unfolded.

Trip rule #1: No Google Maps.
Just us, an old-school road atlas, and Charlie playing Co-Pilot Navigator-in-Chief for the week. What could possibly go wrong?

Turns out, quite a bit.
Missed the turn for Maynooth on the M4 and ended up doing a lovely extended tour of the Dublin ring road — twice. Between me squinting at roundabouts and Charlie trying to make sense of junction numbers, it was a comedy of errors. Eventually, we made it out west.

Found our Airbnb a couple of miles outside Maynooth, tucked away in the countryside — very quaint, like stepping back in time. Our lovely hosts, Austin & Mary, greeted us warmly, showed us to our room, and introduced us to their deaf dog, who didn’t hear us coming but still gave us a good sniffing. The whole place had a calm, old-world feel to it. 

Once we’d settled in, we headed back into Maynooth and treated ourselves to a ridiculously overpriced Papa John’s. Hunger overrides shame. We then walked it off in the glorious evening sunshine, strolling the full length of Carlton Way. At some point on that walk, we passed a little stone boathouse by the water, tucked beside the golf course—part of the Carton House Estate, we later found out. It looked like something out of a storybook, sitting quietly in the reeds. Apparently, it was built for Queen Victoria in the 1800s. Just sitting there, quiet and forgotten, with little red rowboats docked inside. One of those places you don’t plan to see, but don’t forget either.

Knackered now, but happy. Despite a few wrong turns (literal and financial), we’re here. Tomorrow: westward, into the heart of Ireland.

Levy Punk Weekender - Day 1

Levy Punk Weekender – Friday 26.07.24

I headed up to Manchester with MWJ, Rich, and Saw for the start of the Levy Punk Weekender, a three-day celebration of DIY punk culture held at the Klondyke Club in Levenshulme. The Klondyke itself has a fittingly eccentric history – originally a working men's club, it’s since become a quirky community venue known for its welcoming vibe, outdoor stage, and fiercely independent events.

But before the official weekend kicked off, we had something special lined up – a guerrilla gig under a bridge in Fallowfield. And when I say “under a bridge,” I mean exactly that: concrete overhead, spray-painted walls, and the sound of freight trains rolling by in the distance. It felt raw and real – the kind of scene you’d expect to find in old footage of 80s hardcore shows in the U.S., not tucked away in a corner of South Manchester.

Four bands, a battered PA system, crates of beer, and a bubbling pot of vegan hotpot set the tone. The lineup? Slutch! – outrageously young and full of fire – alongside State Sanctioned Violence, Victim Unit, and WND. Each set felt urgent and completely unfiltered. As the music roared on, passersby wandered along the footpath, double-taking at the sudden burst of noise and energy in their otherwise quiet neighbourhood. It was chaotic, joyful, and just about perfect.

We spent the afternoon chatting, reconnecting with old mates, and getting to know new faces. There’s a certain magic to these unofficial gatherings – no security, no barriers, just shared passion and a love for punk in its purest form.

Two urban guerillas, Oskar Crutches and myself

Eventually, the four of us made our way to what we jokingly called Hotel Barely Adequate – a no-frills crash pad, one room, two double beds, no wardrobe and one toilet that flushed hot water! We guesstimated that the one toilet catered for about 30 people. After checking in (and checking out of life) we headed to the Klondyke to dive into the weekend proper: more beer, more bands, and a whole lot more punk rock.

The Friday night lineup didn’t disappoint. We caught a cracking range of bands, each bringing their own flavour to the mix. In alphabetical order: (I'm pretty sure these all played the Friday, I was very very drunk at the time and my notes resemble hieroglyphics!!)

• Crutches – D-beat punks from Sweden, known for their blistering speed, raw aggression, and bottomless Buckfast reserves. Their set was absolutely feral – one of the standouts of the night.

• Derrumbando Defensas – A politically charged punk/hardcore outfit originally from Chile but now partly based in Europe. They delivered a tight, furious set with Latin American anarcho roots and international solidarity vibes baked into every shout.

• Flowers of Flesh and Blood – Fast, noisy and completely uncompromising. Think grindcore/hardcore with a splash of powerviolence. Not for the faint-hearted, and a total blast live.

• Hard Skin – Legends of the punk parody world, playing up their skinhead personas with tongue firmly in cheek. Their set was as hilarious as it was catchy – a brilliant way to end the night.

• Prise – Hardcore punk from Liverpool (I think) with a sharp, screaming edge. 

• Yersin – Crushing, sludge-tinged hardcore with a bleak intensity that left the room breathless. Yorkshire-based, I think – very heavy, very loud, very good.

A proper mixed bag of chaos, character, and community. And that was only Day One.

(Shit pic by me - all the good ones by Rich Phillips and Saw)

Following the Noise: A Welshman's Guide to a Matchless Match Weekend in Dublin

Dublin Rugby Weekend – February 2024

We’re Welsh, but Dublin always feels like a second home — like catching up with long-lost cousins over music, rugby, and a few too many pints. There’s something familiar in the humour, the hospitality, and the sheer love of the game. It’s like being part of one big extended family.

Saturday 24th February
It all kicked off early. Michael picked me up at half past midnight, and we made the sleepy drive to Holyhead to catch the 2:15 AM ferry. We were both running on fumes — barely an hour’s sleep — but got a bit more rest on the boat.

We docked in Dublin at 5:30 AM and headed straight to Maccy’s for breakfast. After a bit of wandering and taking in the calm before the storm, we made our way to The Arlington Hotel around 9:30 AM. The place was already buzzing — full of Welsh fans, many of whom had stayed overnight. It’s right by O’Connell Bridge, with a big bar, riverside views, and soon to be wall-to-wall rugby on the TVs. We met up with Carlos, Julie, Tim, and Lynne, and sat down for a well-earned second breakfast while the atmosphere built around us.

Although we didn’t have tickets for the game, we didn’t need them — Dublin was alive. Every pub was a stadium. The match was on Saturday afternoon, and the city came to a standstill. Every screen was crowded, every pint was raised.

Talking Points from the Match:

• Ireland dominated, especially up front — their forwards were unstoppable at the breakdown and in the scrum.

• Ref decisions caused a stir (as always), but there was little doubt — Ireland thoroughly deserved the win.

Saturday Night: Whelan’s
That evening, things went up another level. Thanks to my Louder Than War credentials — Neil Crud, no less — we got all six of us onto the guest list for the gig at Whelan’s. No blagging needed!

We saw Molly Vulpyne, the ferocious frontwoman of Dublin’s punk duo Vulpynes, tear it up with a solo set full of heavy riffs, howling vocals, and raw energy. It was loud, fun, and full of punch — exactly what you'd want after a big match day.

Support came from:

• The Frenzy of Tongs – a riotous punk rock band from Providence, Rhode Island (USA). They call themselves a "punk rock circus" — and they weren’t wrong. A wild, chaotic, and brilliant set.

• Arcadian Shadows – brought an atmospheric, melodic punk edge that perfectly set the tone for the night.

It was one of those evenings where everything just clicked — music, mood, company. Classic Dublin - and I remembered it !!

Sunday 25th February
Michael and I spent the day exploring more of the city, still riding the high of Saturday. After picking up a couple of cool books at a carboot sale, we ducked into a few quieter pubs and managed to catch the League Cup Final — Liverpool beating Chelsea — which added a cherry on top of a great weekend.

We caught the 8:30 PM ferry back to Holyhead that evening. the sea crossing was blighted by some absolute gobshite who clearly fancied himself as the entertainment. In reality, he was just a gobby cunt. One of those people who thinks being loud is the same as being funny. Sadly, no one else agreed. Still, he wasn’t enough to ruin the weekend.

Rolled into bed at around 1:30 AM — absolutely wrecked, but still buzzing. No match ticket needed — Dublin gave us everything we came for.