Huw Prestatyn kindly agreed to drive us to Manchester’s Boardwalk. On arrival? Total confusion. Our promoter Dave Bennett was supposed to front £170 to cover the venue, soundman and door staff. The manager wasn’t having it at first and it looked like the night was dead in the water. After much arguing, he finally relented but warned that if the takings didn’t cover the costs, he’d baseball bat the promoter. Fine by us.
By 10pm the place was empty. Not a soul. Then, just as despair set in, a huge throng of fresh-faced first-year students came marching down the road, chattering and singing with their new grant money burning holes in their pockets. At least fifty of them. I intercepted, laid it on thick, promised them the night of their lives for £2.50 — and fuck me, they all came in.
The gig that followed lives long in memory. None of these kids had a clue what punk was, but they didn’t care — they danced, cheered, stage-invaded, got pissed, and turned the Boardwalk into a madhouse.
We tore into Nein Werk and Video Party. Cumi was on form, spouting:
“Mary had a little lamb & it was always grunting, she tied it to the garden gate & kicked its little…”
Then introducing VD:
“It’s about Wales, sheep & the things you do to them.”
Me: “He mentions that at every gig.”
Cumi: “I don’t, you do.”
Me: “Do you want me to take my clothes off?”
Crowd: “NO!”
Cumi: “They don’t want to see a gnat’s penis.”
By Not Now Not Never I was pointing into the crowd: “This one’s dedicated to him. It’s a description of his sex life.” Cumi piled in: “And his dick.”
During 1984 I peeled off my jumper just to show my “trendy designer t-shirt.” Cumi: “It’s fashionable, isn’t it?” Cue wooos from the students.
We crashed through Dope Fiend and PMT (my adaptor plug came loose, cutting the guitar out completely). I shrugged: “They don’t need a guitar, they seem to manage quite well without me.” Cumi filled the gap: “This is the interlude where we have a rest and you can buy your sweets, ice creams & crisps in the foyer.”
Jerks went down tight. Afterwards I joked: “People always say we’re cliched. Well, we’re going to show you just how cliched we can be.” Cumi: “Cliched?” Me: “It’s a French word meaning ‘we’ve seen it all before’.” Someone yelled: “It means crap!” Me: “Yeah, that’s about right.”
God Save the Queen got a massive cheer — the best we’ve ever played it. Twisted Tabloids was introduced by Cumi: “This song’s about donkey’s piss flaps.” Big cheers, none the wiser.
We closed with Systemisation, me giving it the “last disco smooch” spiel:
“This is for all you sweethearts. You know when you’re at a trendy disco and the last song is ‘Last Christmas’ by George Michael? Well this is our version. Have a smooch.”
Cue chaos and mock ballroom dancing. Before the last chorus I announced: “I think Blitzkrieg are the best band I’ve seen this week, a fine bunch of musicians.” The room erupted, standing ovation, chants of “More! More!”
Cumi signed off: “Thanks a lot, goodnight — if you want to see us again we’re at the Swinging Sporran in Chorlton, a week on Saturday.”
“Who with?” shouted someone.
“Wham, Kajagoogoo & Tina Turner,” deadpanned Cumi.
I went to turn my amp off and fell flat on my face, raising the roof one last time.
Then Blitzkrieg came on. After three songs, the place emptied.
