Fire Dance Festival 2025: my 18 hours

 

Fire Dance - Girsby & Over Dinsdale Village Hall

Amass, through the lens of my shit phone

You should never let any day, let alone weekend pass you by… so weekends like Fire Dance should be compulsory.

Set in the peaceful green belt between Girsby and Over Dinsdale in North Yorkshire, this little DIY festival is one of punk, techno, and full‑throttle weirdness among like-minded people and it was superb—even if I only caught half of it.

Originally, my plan was to rock up Friday evening with my lad Charlie, pitch the tent, and dive straight into a night of punk rock and pulsing beats. But life, as ever, had other plans. A work colleague suffered a freak accident involving a sock (yes, really—don’t ask), which kept me in North Wales at the last minute. So instead of driving north towards festival fields and furious feedback, I was being polite to the buying public and wishing my life away to 5pm. Too late to start a four hour drive, so it was an early night in prep for an early dart in the morning.

By Saturday lunchtime, we were finally on the road back up. And while I missed some killer sets—including a reportedly storming show by anarcho legends The System (a band I used to write to as a teenager, back when punk records had mailing addresses and you'd trade stickers for stamps)—I did arrive just in time to play a part in the fun and games myself.

Drafted into Drop A#

I'd been called in on a last-minute favour by Emissaries Of Syn, my gnarly grind/crusty neighbours (and alleged friends) from North Wales. Kev, their fifth(!) guitarist couldn’t make it, and somehow, I stupidly agreed to be the emergency stand-in. Or guitarist 5.1 as they called me.

If you’re a guitarist, you’ll feel the sweat forming already: EoS tune down to Drop A♯. That’s not just low—it’s tectonic. Most bands settle for Drop D or C if they want heaviness, but these crazy fools go full sonic earthquake. I had to track down the thickest strings I could find and learn the material more by feel than sound—my slightly deaf ears couldn’t make sense of the recorded tracks at that tuning. So I memorised the shapes and hoped muscle memory would carry me through.

Miraculously, it worked. We had a blast, pure and simple. Chaotic fun? Totally. We got away with it, and the band sold records and t-shirts.

A Tent-Side View

After that, it was time to soak up the rest of the festival with a very tired 11-year-old in tow. We didn’t make it to the front for the last two acts, but from the warm sanctuary of our tent (strategically close enough), we caught some incredible sounds:

• The Sporadics tore it up with their punk-ska fusion, a bouncing frenzy of skanking beats and vocals that channeled Dick Lucas–style urgency (think Culture Shock with a horn section).

• Petrol Hoers—what even are Petrol Hoers? An offshoot of the gloriously unhinged Petrol Bastard, this was less a gig and more a surreal fever dream about the darker side of horses. It’s punk performance art at its most twisted. And brilliant.
  
  Yeah, those two were listened to - these three were seen and heard...

• B-Type brought a refreshing dose of quirky techno-hop, all bounce and basslines and weirdness. Somewhere between a rave and a puppet show. In the best way.

• Cress, now a stripped-down two-piece on stage (though a trio on record), delivered their brand of  anarcho-punk, plenty of space in the songs as the visuals added to the message, and menace.

• And AMASS, featuring our brilliant hosts Andy and Marnie, closed out my night with a blistering set. Heavy, full-on and ferociously tight. An absolute highlight and seriously lapped up by all those present.

The Spirit of Fire Dance

What really made Fire Dance special wasn’t just the music (though that was excellent across the board)—it was the atmosphere. The DIY ethos. The sense of community. The fact that in the middle of nowhere, people had come together to share a weekend of beers, music, laughs and love, surrounded by countryside, midges and low flying aircraft.

There were crusties and punks, ravers and a few kids, dogs, tents, dogs in tents, and possibly a few demons summoned during the noisier sets. And while the village hall and camping field might not seem like much from the outside, inside was a different world—one where anything could happen, and probably did.

Until Next Time…

While I only got a taste of the weekend this time, I’m already planning to do the full Friday-to-Sunday stretch next year. Hopefully without any sock-related emergencies.

Massive thanks to everyone involved—bands, organisers, punters, sound crew (Ash for lending the amp), and especially those random strangers who shared beers, banter and blistering music. It’s events like Fire Dance that remind me why this DIY community matters so much: it’s loud, it’s weird, and it’s alive.

See you in that field next year - if not before.

Drop A# baby

Summer Solstice, Severance, and a Beer to Celebrate

 

TV, Traffic & Twilight Runs

Started the first episode of Severance — intriguing!

But a vehicle fire shut the Conwy Tunnel and rendered a Spam Javelin rehearsal null and void tonight. Honestly, not a bad thing — it’s hot (body + weather = 😓).

Just did a quick 5-miler from Penrhosgarnedd to Felinheli and back in the warm summer heat. Felt great!

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Solstice Heat & Charlie’s School Delays

Solstice is upon us already and it’s only just getting warm — well, 29°C! Charlie’s bunking school today — he was late getting back from a school trip due to Conwy Tunnel closures. Classic timing.

Picked up some heavy strings in prep for Emissaries of Syn rehearsal Tuesday. Drop A#, baby.

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Booking Flights & Future Plans

Discovery Friday! Also: Chilli oil is the future.

Today is Booking Flights to Bangkok Day! Me & Tim fly out Tuesday, 9th Sept at noon. One-way tickets: £263 each. Will sort out the return in a couple of weeks from now.

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Groceries, Goals & Guitars

After pancakes and guitar stringing, I took a twilight walk to Tesco in the heat of a 10 p.m. evening. Picked up: veg oil, cordial, smoothie & bananas. I did ask Charlie if he fancied joining me on my solstice supermarket pilgrimage, but he said he didn't have time for all that hippy stuff — ha ha!

Total: £9.40 — I’ve spent £12 on food this week. That’s a new low record!

I might have a beer to celebrate 🍺

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Final Thought

Emissaries Of Syn's music is just an awful noise

Listen here 

(Moral: the only way is ethics!)

Conflicted

 

🧨 Monday, June 2nd – Chaos, Chords, and Cucumber Sarnies

Today started with chaos — classic. Forgot to unset my phone alarm, so it went off at 6am like a demon summoning ritual. I didn’t even start work until 8. Roof leak still haunting the to-do list like a specter with a spanner.

🎸 Punk Is Still Alive (And So Is My To-Do List)

Somewhere between washing my bedding and wandering to ASDA for a mooch, I remembered I’ve got a Crapsons LP sleeve to design. Big love to my surrogate sons, forever asking favours of their pretend Dad.

Also need to find three chords and make another album — because hey, that’s how punk works, right?

Got distracted again by music. Always do. Had The Lovely Eggs blasting while trying to recycle (badly). Honestly, might be falling in love with them a little.

USA NAILS also caught my ear — messy, loud, honest. Just how I like it.

🎮 Detox? More Like Detour

Told myself I’m detoxing. Then played PlayStation for hours. The irony isn't lost on me.

Lunch: Cucumber salad sarnies + crisps. Probably the healthiest part of the day.

Tea: Mushroom stir-fry with YouTube synth pop as the soundtrack. Felt like I was in a lo-fi anime for a minute.

💀 Conflict

Got news that Colin Jerwood of Conflict has died.

That hit hard. Massive influence on me growing up. That band screamed what I couldn’t say. DIY punk, anarcho rage, politics with distortion. Rest in power.

*This upload is processing & should be available shortly.

That line hit different today. Feels like me some days.

Crutches in Berlin

 It was too good an opportunity to miss... A free weekend and our erstwhile D-beat crust punk friends, Crutches from Sweden are playing in Berlin. Steve Sync and myself have travelled far and wide for many years, sometimes as bandmates, always as buddies. Far from being jetsetters, we find the cheapest option available and press Go! This time, a direct flight from the North West of Britain to Berlin was way too expensive for our punk rock pockets so we found a route from Liverpool to the Polish city of Szczecin (no, I hadn't heard of it either). This involved rising at stupid o'clock on Friday morning - (my Thursday evening involved rehearsing at Orange Studios with Spam Javelin ahead of our own batch of gigs later this month). I dropped a gear and smashed the accelerator into the floor and sped to Steve's hometown of Rhyl, picking up a succulent Chinese meal along the way, and after a couple of hours' snoozing in the spare room, we headed to Liverpool airport for the 5.45am flight to Szczecin.

It was a clockwork kind of weekend - everything went to plan - everything fell into place. The car parking spot at the airport (always more expensive than the flight), through security, onto the plane, photographed and fingerprinted by border control in Szczecin, straight onto a train to the city (45min ride), and onto a £14 Flixbus for a two hour journey to Alexanderplatz in Berlin. We picked up the 300 bus to Eastside Gallery right next to the heavily graffiti'd Berlin Wall, found our hotel and then headed out to the venue, Reset (via some punk rock pubs). It was early, but we snuck our heads round the door in the venue and found Andreas, Daniel, Oskar and Tom of Crutches milling about with the other bands. I had last seen Crutches on their Greek mini-tour late last year, so it was good to catch-up with them again and share a pint (or twelve!) of Berliner with them. We were soon joined by more old friends in the form of Nic and Nina and the venue filled up with people and a party atmosphere - ready for some grinding noise!

Despite a heavy hungover head, I woke up next morning laughing. What a great night! We were eventually asked to leave the venue as those running it wanted to go home! All three bands played short but blisteringly sharp sets. CRE-DES started things off with their rumbling brutalist shouty noise from Hanover. Their Demo (here on Bandcamp) is actually better than the live set, but then again my attention was spread thin from talking to many people at the same time.

Horrific Visions were up next, and they upped the ante - like a reversal of CRE-DES, their live set was better than their Bandcamp EP, which is also very good. Visually striking, the Berlin band are fronted by Kody (who I believe moved here from Indonesia), and they've played with Crutches on previous visits to the German capitol. It's almost hypnotic D-beat (if there's such a thing) and great entertainment.

On day seven of an eight date tour, Sweden's Crutches were on fire (as were their livers). They volleyed a very short, yet uncompromising set at the German (and Welsh) crowd. They mangeled as we begged for freedom... 

You too can get mangeled here - bandcamp

Kier Starmer the gig promoter

 Woke up confused, my dream did it; Kier Starmer was disappointed with me because I hadn't followed up on the lead he gave me for my band Spam Javelin to play in Hoffenheim. I feigned that I had called the number, but I could tell he knew this wasn't the case.

With the rain mainly falling on the plain, Sunday turned out to be a pyjama day - I like these days - I couldn't do them everyday as the great outdoor forever lures me outward. The kid is online murdering aliens with his mates and I'm sifting through this week's contributions as I prepare my Louder Than War radio show.
An hour's show could easily be chucked together on the hoof, but I enjoy gathering music, listening to new stuff, researching bands - it's what makes me tick. When there was an actual studio to broadcast from there was usually a live band, eager to nervously play on air to the masses - some would travel from afar to appear on a Monday night in North Wales! I think Blanchard travelled the furthest, hailing from Lancaster (the crazy fools! - great session though!). These post-Covid days, the show is done from the comfort of my living room (usually in those said PJs!), and I'll sometimes feature a new album, depends how the mood takes me - There's no rules.

With the playlist in place, I set aside about ten minutes of free space as bands will often send me stuff during the course of Monday once they see the show advertised, and sometimes the track is too good to leave til next week. I then design a flyer for that particular show, yes, I could use the same one, but where's the fun in that? Once done I'll share it on the socials.
All this takes a couple of hours, and normally it'll be all done by around 8am on a Sunday morning!

With the Rain Gods unrelenting I took the opportunity to read the latest issue of Cubesville fanzine #27 with some cool interviews and humour driven views - I took it upon myself to go with Ritual Error's desert island disc choices (basically Cubesville asked them what three albums each of them would take), so I revved up the Spotify (yeah get over it) and skipped over Minutemen and Saccharine Trust to go for the excellent Hoover album 'The Lurid Traversal Of Route' followed by Fugazi's 'In On The Kill Taker' and Unwound's 'New Plastic Ideas.'

I then tore up my new water bill from Dwr Cymru who've increased the theft by £20 a month, and also realised I'm getting pickpocketed an extra £11 by the council. Bastards the lot of them...

Cyclepathic Cash Only Cyclist's Funeral

The weekend was slightly marred by the fact I had to work (yes even rockstars have to work for a living), so the kiddo had to string along. To keep him occupied for four hours while I made money for The Man, I coerced him into cleaning my car with the promise of money and the added bonus of commandeering a hose pipe. I've had the car for almost a year and it's NEVER been washed. Fair play, Charlie took it in his stride and did a sterling job, even vaccing the interior. Talking of sterling, I did try and fob him off with ten Euros left in my wallet after Lisbon, but he wasn't buying into that. We later agreed on a £12 kite from Smyths toys instead - alas not enough huff in the air to fly it, but I'm sure Storm Elon will be along soon.

By noon, it was time to close shop and let the leisure begin - I finally fixed the bike rack to the (now pristine) car and mounted our bikes and headed East to Llanfairfechan promenade. We hit the route on our bikes, traversing probably the toughest section of the North Wales Cycle Path around Penmaen Head and into Penmaenmawr. An ice cream on the beach was called for but the sign read 'CASH ONLY' and I sighed at the Euros in my otherwise empty wallet. I had read earlier that the Scandanavian countries were the pioneers in promoting a cashless society, but are now encouraging their populations to start using the green stuff again, and ensure some is also kept at home in case of a cyber attack. Cash should be king, with every card transaction you do, you're tracked and traced by the corporate cookie monster, just waiting to spam you with shit you don't need. Plus, if you're self employed then, money makes the world go round and the taxman, who fucks you senseless already, can't clobber you so easily.

The wonderful Bruise Control sing:

I'd rather see the grave before I see tears for the taxman

I'm gonna knock the jaw off the next toff that tells me to relax man

I'm sick to my fucking gut of you telling me what to do

The best thing i ever did was stop listening to you

Death to the jobsworths, death to the snitches

Death for the taxman, death to his riches

Death for the dead, death for the living

The decision was made to return to the car, completing a six mile cycle, and head to Llandudno pier for an ice cream, which we duly did! 

'Hey Neil!' - it was Adam of Scotch Funeral with two cohorts, also on the pier to soak in the magnificent view. The said cohorts were (I guess), Steve the drummer and cameraman Alex - they were taking a break from filming a video for the forthcoming Scotch Funeral album, called 'Ever & Ever'. This is exciting! On vinyl no less!! Fair do's... I'm really looking forward to hearing that gnarly garage punk offering (and I'm sure you are too).

(Charlie plays harmonica while I ponder over a crisp butty on the cyclepath)

#punk #cycling #northwales #cyclepath #bruisecontrol

Lunch Breaks, Memoir Dreams & Diminishing Responsibility

 

Lunch Hour Sanctuary

The fastest hour of the day is nearly over — my lunch hour at home, my little sanctum sanctorum. 3 ginger biscuits and a cup of chai tea (scoffed my sandwiches earlier at 11 a.m. in work). It was spent washing up and reading Alvin Gibbs' book — seriously inspiring.

Inspiring enough to maybe get me writing better, more often 😊 — maybe even the courage to finally publish my own memoirs. But who’d be interested?

Although... they are very good.

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Evening Walks & Nostalgia Hits

Took a quick walk to pick up provisions after work — twilight in TUESDAY form. Watched the sunrise in Wrexham this morning and the moon set over Caerhun this evening — a beautiful symmetry.

An early start should mean an early finish — but I can’t feel the luxury of that just yet in my working life. I can, however, enjoy an evening with the Urban Dogs (no beach needed), a bottle of red wine, and a good book.

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Another Legend Gone

Rick Buckler of The Jam has died. Aged 67. I briefly met him at Deeside Leisure Centre in 1979 — where he gave me his autograph.

It’s 10 p.m. now. YouTube’s tired me. The fire is now just embers. Time to take my book from the balmy 24deg of the living room to the coolness of my bedroom.

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Final Notes from Wednesday

Weds 19th Feb 25 — Midweek highlight: a couple of hours with Charlie. We had fish & pasta for tea before a walk back on this mild evening.

And for Thursday...

More of the same — admin & chasing unnecessary chaos. 

Heh!

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.

Barcelona Mayhem: Punk, Pints & Pyrrhic Victories

Day 1 – Thursday 18th May 2023: Classic Welsh Send-Off & the Journey Begins

We kicked things off with a classic Welsh send-off, gathering at Llandudno Junction station—me, Carlos, Steve, Mic, Tim, and his dad, Keith. The atmosphere was already buzzing. The train took us to Liverpool Lime Street, where we stopped for a few pints at the Crown Hotel—a proper old-school pub full of stained glass, polished wood, and that comforting scouse hum.

Then it was on to the shuttle bus to the airport and a smooth 2-hour flight to Barcelona.

After landing, we made our way to our large but totally antiquated apartment near the old Bullring. The place had charm, doors that didn’t shut, a shower with a mind of its own (and creaking floorboards) in equal measure, but it was home for the rest of the week—and we were ready.

We dropped our bags and headed straight out in search of drinks, after all this was a pub-crawl disguised as a cultural getaway. At the first bar we found, Tim, parched and ever the optimist, walked up and asked the barman:

“A pint of John Smith’s, please.”
The barman blinked. Then, in total confusion:
“Fish and chip?”

We lost it. That line became the running joke for the rest of the trip.

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Day 2 – Friday 19th May 2023: Sagrada Awe, Subway Wanders & 6am Madness

We kicked things off with a bit of culture—a visit to the Sagrada Família. I've seen it twice before, but honestly, it never gets any less jaw-dropping. Gaudí’s unfinished masterpiece is like a gothic dream crossed with an alien spaceship—spires twisting into the sky, stonework so intricate it feels alive. Spiritual or not, you can’t help but feel something. Never got to see inside though as we'd still probably be waiting in the queue to get in now!

From there, we crisscrossed the city on Barcelona’s brilliant metro system. Clean, efficient, fast—ideal. But those long underground tunnel walks between stations? Absolute calf-killers, especially in the heat and after a few Estrellas.

The day turned into a rolling pub crawl. We wandered through neighbourhoods, ducking into bars with cold beer and wild soundtracks. One spot had weird cocktails, another had punk posters peeling off the walls—each one a little gem. The city became a blur of laughter, glasses clinking, and music blasting from open doors.

Eventually, we got back to the apartment—but crashing wasn’t on the cards.
Instead, the six of us ended up throwing our own party. Just us, but the way we were carrying on, it felt—and definitely sounded—like the flat was packed. The music was loud, the drinks kept flowing, and somehow the neighbours didn’t complain.

We finally called it a night at 6am. Or more accurately, we called it a morning.

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Day 3 – Saturday 20th May 2023: Camp Nou Majesty, Loudmouths & Late-Night Kebabylon

After a much-needed lie-in and a recovery session that involved more coffee than conversation, Steve, Mic, and I headed out for something special: a night at the Camp Nou.

Even walking up to it is a buzz. The scale of the stadium is something else—88,000 seats, wrapped in concrete history. You don’t just watch football here; you feel it. Every seat, every chant, every echo is soaked in decades of glory, heartbreak, and pure passion.

We watched Barcelona take on Real Sociedad. Barça had already sealed La Liga, but Sociedad came to spoil the mood. A quick goal from Merino, followed by Sørloth’s second-half finisher, gave them the edge. Lewandowski pulled one back late, but it ended 1–2—Barça’s first home defeat of the season. Still, the atmosphere was electric, even in defeat.

After the match, we linked back up with Tim, Carlos, and Keith at an Irish bar. They were already a few pints deep and full of life. We settled in... until we encountered a bloke from Leicester with a voice so loud it felt like your brain was short-circuiting. Every sentence he shouted was like a fire alarm test in a broom cupboard.
We made a sharp exit.

Next, we stumbled into a bar with a YouTube jukebox—and that’s when things got surreal.

We queued up a few tracks, and suddenly Spam Javelin’s “Nazi Line Dancers Fuck Off” was blasting across a bar in Barcelona. Then up came The Affliction, Steve’s band, with their classic “Good People.” Watching our own noise on-screen with strangers around us—absolute magic. Punk DIY dreams made real, one blurry video at a time.

We stayed for a couple of hours, revelled in the weirdness, and then, like true champions, finished the night at Kebabylon—a spiritual experience in the form of greasy late-night food.

Back to the apartment and asleep by 4am, dreaming in feedback and falafel.

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Day 4 – Saturday 20th May 2023: Cable Cars, Card Swaps & a Feast Fit for Kings

By Day 4, we were craving something less hectic—and daylight. After dragging ourselves up, in a post-vegetative state, we stumbled out and hit up the Mercat de Sant Antoni Sunday market—a few minutes from our apartment. The place was alive with locals: stalls piled high with books, vinyl, comics... and kids swapping Pokémon cards like it was some underground trade summit. No official tournament, just pure trading chaos at benches and corners, like Sunday morning Pokémon capitalism in action .

After breakfast we made our way down to the Port Vell cable car (the Transbordador Aeri del Port) from Sant Sebastià across the harbour. Ten glorious minutes of floating above the Mediterranean, with glittering sea, docked yachts, a huge Virgin cruise ship, and the city’s red roofs stretched out beneath us. We hopped off at Miramar, our spirits lifted by the sea breeze.

Down we slid on the Montjuïc funicular—a swift, scenic link from the tram network into the leafy slopes of Montjuïc—before strolling/staggering through gardens and fountains, catching glimpses of Barcelona from above. A perfect antidote to the previous nights' chaos.

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As the sun dipped, we recharged at the apartment, then headed back to the old Bullring (Las Arenas) for a proper dinner. We picked Pura Brasa Arenas, a brasserie inside the converted bullring/shopping centre by Plaza España.

The feast was modest—I lied:

• Steve demolished a steak the size of a cow. No exaggeration.

• I tackled a mac & cheese portion so massive it could’ve fed a vegetarian brigade.

• Keith got stuck into a full meal and single-handedly polished off a bottle of red like it was lunch.

Massive portions, bold flavours—and nobody left hungry.

---

We rolled back to the apartment under the city lights, feet sore and stomachs full. No late-night rager tonight—just content, comfy, and oddly proud we managed to keep the rest of the trip from spiralling. Sometimes, relaxing counts as an added bonus even on a boys' trip abroad. Although Keith and Mic did stay out and rolled in about midnight and raring for a party!

Day 5 – Sunday 21st May 2023: Homeward Bound (Eventually)

And just like that, the end crept up on us.

We woke up slowly — more like resurrection than waking, really — and began the familiar dance of packing up, finding passports, checking pockets for keys, chargers, dignity. The apartment looked like it had hosted a student rave and a tactical retreat all at once: pizza boxes, empty bottles, broken bottles, mystery socks, and hangovers hanging in the air like incense.

Still, spirits were oddly high. Probably because we’d somehow made it through five days in Barcelona without any major injuries, arrests, or international incidents.

We grabbed a final coffee (or whatever form of caffeine we could hold down), and made our way toward El Prat Airport — swapping war stories from the week, quoting barmen and loud Leicester lads, arguing about who snored the worst (me), and whose turn it was to forget something important (Michael).

A 2-hour flight later, we touched down in Liverpool, dragging ourselves back toward Llandudno Junction, where it had all begun.

Somewhere between the pints, the platform announcements, and the last of our leftover Euros being blown on crisps and snacks, it hit us: we’d nailed this trip. Loud, messy, no sunburn and brilliant —  nailed it.

Back to Llandudno Junction, back to Wales, and back to normality — or something close to it.

Postscript: A Sad Note

When I got home, the comedown hit harder than usual. Not just because the trip was over — but because I found out that Algy Ward had died.

If you know, you know. His basslines weren’t just riffs — they were anthems. And The Damned's Machine Gun Etiquette wasn’t just an album — it was a way of life. That record is one of my all-time favourites, and Algy’s playing on it still knocks me sideways. Loud, tight, fearless. Pure energy. The best heavy metal bass player punk ever had, in my book.

He never played it safe. And neither did we, not on this trip. So it feels right to raise a glass — belatedly — to Algy. A legend. A lifeblood. A part of the noise that made us.

Bruise Control / Fuzz Lightyear @ Big Hands, Manchester

 

Big Hands is such a great venue - it has cool staff and a cool vibe. Drinking our way there from the centre of town it turned out the first band weren't on until 10pm. So this meant two hours of supping and chilling out to the best playlist I've never heard... The tunes were perfect for the mood; all dirty, sleazy and all from the garage of life.

Fuzz Lightyear had played a festival earlier today and waded into Big Hands a little flustered, but were ready to rock and roll by the promised 10pm. I'm still pondering as to whether the name Fuzz Lightyear is pure genius or totally ridiculous - probably both. This doesn't detract from the fact they deliver an audacious sound straight outta Leeds. It's noisegaze, post-hardcore, garage-fuzz, call it what you want, I thought it was simply neat. Psychedelic intricate guitars are built around Ben Parry's distinct vocals and the band pull no punches. The recent expansive addition of Alex Calder on guitar / synth brings a hint of the direction they're heading and the destination is exciting. Their volatile debut EP 'Fuzz II' brought a welcome grunge strewn barrage of noise, but there is more to come out the Fuzz locker.

Bruise Control are on home turf and the cruise control is set to max. The pedal is rammed against the metal and there's RedX in the tank. The turbo-goths have necked a fistful of pills from their Nan's medicine cabinet, washed them down with cans of Monster and they're gonna get GTA on your ass.
Fronted by the cartoon character that is Jimbob Taylor, who must live in a tin shack, surrounded by chickens on the side of a dusty highway, Bruise Control rocked my world. They trashed through their repertoire, kicking, screaming, spitting and shagging. Your head is forced down the toilet and is repeatedly flushed as they laugh at your misery.
This is cowpunk hardcore nonsense for deadbeats - YOU are a deadbeat - catch Bruise Control on tour with Sniff in May.
I have just ticked a box I didn't have to tick.

Red Or Dead - Anarchy Is Liberty

Talk about bad timing (or perhaps bad tidings), Red Or Dead (and myself as link2wales records) put this album out just as the whole world decided to impose martial law on a flu ravaged population. 

It was my 22nd release on link2wales, (a kind of record label that upped the ante every now and then when the mood takes me). Never for profit, I let bands use the link2wales platform so long as they paid for the pressing and I got a few copies to cover my own costs. Most pressings were in batches of 100 and (for gigging bands) they usually sold out pretty quick.

Link2wales Records are proud to announce the release of the second album from Penmachno’s Red Or Dead.
Anarchy Is Liberty is available on CD in a card wallet and features 9 socially active punk-folk songs that you can shake an angry stick at. It follows on from 2018’s well received debut album Trotsky Waltz.

The Ginger Quiff wrote this about the album:

The new album, Anarchy is Liberty, from North Wales’ acoustic punks Red or Dead is a timely comment on the current state of the planet. It proves you don’t have to scream and shout and thrash on loud electric guitars to make a point as 21st Century anarcho punks.

I believe I made this comparison before, but the band fills the ground somewhere between Wigan folk punks The Tansads and the now legendary Levellers, with a host of ideals and influences shared with original anarcho punks, Crass and taking influence from the music of Joe Strummer and The Clash.

Zombieland

Take the first track for example, Zombieland, with Rob’s vocal delivery paying tribute to The Clash’ Magnificent Seven complete. The track is all about the masses walking around with eyes and minds closed and accepting everything we are spoon fed by the media and government. We close our eyes in Zombieland, do what we’re told in Zombieland… A little closer to home in the current climate.

The theme of standing up and being counted continues throughout the album with Take the Streets a call to arms for the “woke” amongst the population (why have we started shortening words that are already short?). The album takes its title from this song and highlights some of the divine harmonies between Rob and Gala.

Gala takes the lead on In the End to great effect accompanied by some sweet acoustic guitar runs and riffing. Greed takes on a more sinister tone with ominous bass and sombre acoustic guitar introducing the lyrical subject matter which I’m sure you can guess at based on the song title.  There is also some sublime acoustic Spanish guitar riffing later in the track.

Fall Down

Talking of Spanish, Calles Del Delor (Streets of Pain) packs a powerful anti-drugs and corruption message. Sweetly strummed mandolin adds an extra texture to one of the album’s highlights, Fall Down. Its harmonious layered chorus documenting the greed influenced dragging down of protagonist in the song. This maudlin track gives way to the driving incessant driving beat of Limited Vision

The penultimate track is their previous single released around the time of the last Royal Wedding. Inspired by the news stories of homeless people being moved on from the streets, lest the world should see that there are homeless people on the streets of the UK. It attacks the Royal Family and its lack of relevance. A mere publicity machine to bring in the tourists.

A Storm is Coming is the last, the most delicate and the most beautiful, almost prescient song on the album. The repeated refrain rises in volume and pitch and adds a choir at the end. The power of the song finally revealed in all its glory. A storm is coming now, it comes for us all …

This album has been on constant rotation. It gets better every time I listen. The harmonies and melodies are exquisite. The songs demonstrate the capacity and impact of cleverly created lyrics proving you don’t have to play loud guitars to show your anger and passion to get a point across.

Barcelona, Spain

 Sunday, January 19th, 2020 – Barcelona, Spain

Just wrapped up four incredible nights in Barça with Tracey. It’s been an unforgettable trip – a true mix of sunshine, sweat, street art, beer, and sensory overload. The weather was a dream for January – warm enough for shorts and t-shirts by day. The place we stayed had 88 steps up to the rooftop terrace, and every climb was rewarded with a stunning view and, amusingly, the unmistakable scent of weed from the stoners everywhere; this made my chilled reading of the 400 page American Hardcore: A Tribal History book all the better.

We spent hours getting lost in the Gothic Quarter—a twisted maze of alleyways dripping in history, art, pimps and pushers. Stone arches and crumbling facades next to bold, furious graffiti. One highlight was a haunting, futuristic metal sculpture tucked away in a quiet courtyard near an art gallery—a giant face, welded and pierced with steel rods, staring off into nothing. It looked like thoughts were exploding from its head. There was something so introspective and sci-fi about it—like the mind made visible. I just stood there, feeling both seen and slightly disturbed. A beautiful contrast with the surrounding medieval stones.

Another afternoon, we wandered into a narrow street somewhere between El Raval and the Gothic Quarter, the kind that narrows into a living corridor of peeling walls, balconies tangled in laundry and potted plants. The storefronts were covered in stickers and grime, the kind of urban patina that says you’re somewhere real. People were everywhere—tourists, locals, a street guide mid-sentence, an old guy in a beanie looking skyward like he’s seen it all before. The vibe was alive, chaotic but grounded, like the city was letting you in on a secret and laughing at you at the same time.

We hit some brilliant dive bars too—Nevermind (a grungy, skater hole-in-the-wall, complete with an indoor skate ramp), Manchester Bar, Bollocks, and Psycho. Loud music, cheap drinks, great people, wild energy. The spirit of rebellion everywhere. I swear we did at least 14,000 steps a day, probably more. One trek up to Montjuïc Castle nearly did us in—but the views of the city and the sea made it all worth it. Same with the Sagrada Família. Honestly? It blew me away. It’s not just a building—it’s a living prayer, frozen mid-sentence. Unfinished, but complete in its grandeur.

Still – what a place, what a ride.