86 Degrees Fahrenheit

How hot is it??!!! - Thankfully, coming back from Las Vegas, a paltry 86deg F is 20 less than in Sin City...

The Alarm are playing Manchester Academy at the end of this month and Mike Peters approached us about doing a live webcast - but the expense including logistics may prove to be a little too much, but we’re going to film it anyway and do fast edits of some of the songs for web broadcasts – maybe a different song each day.
The ‘live’ version of the ‘Raindown’ video will also be up on the net soon – the single version of the song is far more powerful than the LP version – short and to the point.

Homespun's new DVD Badman has been delivered (it looks excellent). Complete Control's showcase DVD has also been delivered (it too looks excellent). And we're concentrating on getting the vids up onto our website as a showcase - cos we need more work!!
Sonic Boom Six have approached us about doing a vid for their forthcoming single - it's a dirty punk song, and although they come from Manchester they want to use Rhyl for the backdrop because of its scummy qualities - damn right!
The Racketears are also in the pipeline to do a video – look forward to that one.

Made my first on stage appearance in SEVEN years last night, guesting on vocals with PSST’s Paul Scouse and Dean Obscene for their version and reworking of the old Sons of Selina song ‘Creatures of The Night’. Everyone knows the song in Bar Blu thanks to ex-DJ Andy Baker playing it to death at the venue. Felt quite good to be up there, albeit for 6mins. I did initially fear it be a bit of a parody, particularly with PSST doing their ‘Now Is The Time’ World Cup song first, but backed by scouse band Sleeps With Fishes they performed admirably.
Ironically it was 14 years to the day that Paul Scouse knocked on my flat door in Butterton Rd, Rhyl to tell me he’d sacked me from the original PSST. The rest, they say is history!

Done another radio show; there’s some great music around and long may it continue. The MySpace revolution has had a lot to do with this incredible explosion. Excellent.

The Curry Continues...

Right that’s it! Enough is enough… No more midnight curries! I can handle the beer the next day but it’s the curry that’s the killer! It’s not like I get any of the traditional joke shop ‘shit through the eye of a needle’ the next day, it’s the awful I’ve been kicked in the head and torso feeling I get! I love my curries HOT and Sunday night’s Garlic Chilli Chicken was no exception. The pity is that it was exceptional, and I wolfed it down while drunkenly emailing sweet nothings to Bethan Elfyn as she was standing in for Adam Walton’s BBC Radio Wales Show.
I was up at 5.45am the next morning and necked nearly a litre of raspberry & cranberry juice and stumbled back into bed with heartburn. Getting up 45mins later, I made my vow - No more midnight curries!
Will I keep my promise…?

Saw 2 good bands at Blu last Wednesday (see reviews on my www.link2wales.co.uk website); both very young, Anubis and Jacobi filled the void left by the absent Three Minute Warning and did so admirably. And on Thursday I re-acquainted myself with old drinking buddy Dewi Gwyn (Anhrefn’s ex-guitarist) in Bangor and we saw Toadstool play in The Harp. I think I put Dewi in a bin the first time I met him; of course we’re more civilised now.
Rhys of Sibrydion had invited me to Ruthin on Friday to check out his band with a view to doing a live DVD. I changed my mind when he told me they were on at 11.30pm and it was the Eisteddfod. My memory of these events is hundreds of kids drinking, smoking, fighting and shagging. I’m all for the first and last factors, it’s the two in the middle that put me off.
I also missed The Dirty Weekend at The Dudley, Dave Cox always seems to manage to put it on to coincide when I have The Crudlets, and even though my 7 year old endlessly plays Sons of Selina and The Alarm, maybe an introduction to vomiting punks would prove to be a little too soon. So instead we sampled the delights of Bodelwyddan Castle where my 13-year-old daughter challenged me to game of chess on the huge outdoor board they have there and it took me hour to beat her.

Anyway, back to last night. I fancied a quiet couple of pints with Steve Sync, nothing serious, home for 10pm. So I picked him up at 7.45pm and he was pissed! He’d been out all afternoon. So we strolled into Wetherspoons in Rhyl and, although pretty quiet it was like a who’s who of Rhyl music! Sync (The Affliction), John Morris (Carpet), Andy Treadear and Ollie (Scott Bakers), Remo (Der Bomber) and myself (Pink Floyd). Once lubricated we headed to The North Wales and stumbled in to the Sunday night quiz; a very boisterous affair that we lost. Then back to Wethers ‘til 11.30pm then for that dreaded curry.

Viva Las Vague Arse

‘I’d rather go hungry than eat that shit.’
Came an American drawl as he walked passed Burger King in Las Vegas International Airport. Maybe some attitudes are changing in the US of A but that lone voice doesn’t speak for the 209 million people whose diet makes them walking miracles.
Having spent a week in the excess capitol of the world I’ve managed to put back on the stone I had lost, and that was with walking about 20 miles a day! Salad? What’s a salad? It’s actually that blood soaked green stuff you have on the side of your steak that the waitress wipes into the bin after your meal.
It took a good couple of days to adjust to the time difference, although having not slept properly for over a month I thought the 8 hours behind would not have mattered; but it did. More so to Steve Sync who not only suffered from jet lag, but also jet arse (sorry, ass!) and his daily quest to have a proper dump bore little fruit and the three huge meals a day piled up and up within him. It was Thursday’s intake of 911 Hot Wings at Hooters that did the laxing trick for him and he never looked back after that. The 911 wings (named so after the emergency services number in the States) is probably the hottest thing you’ll find to eat in Las Vegas (after the Hooters girls) as the Americans don’t seem to have spice on their menu. A visit to a mexican restaurant confirmed this when I requested my chicken fatijas nice ‘n’spicy,
‘No, you don’t want that sir.’
‘I do!’
I didn’t get it though. No, the Americans, or the Las Vegans at least like it with meat, rich and sweet (and weak lager), and that’s how it is. The steak is superb because the cows are well fed, but you can’t have it for breakfast, lunch and dinner unless you’re a body builder. Pancakes with maple syrup are a priority and even the world’s worst hangover couldn’t stop you drenching that syrup over the plate.
Myself and Sync needed a holiday, we’ve both been through the mill this year, due to one thing or another, we’ve worked hard, we’ve always played hard, so now was the time play a little harder. There was the option of a week in Spain, but we thought we’d look like two gays on the beach, then we thought of Amsterdam, but we’re filming Gong there for three days in November, then Sync came up with Las Vegas.
‘Las Vegas, what! All in for £512!? – Let’s go!’
If you’re 6’3” (as we are), you should have your legs surgically removed at the knees to accommodate a comfortable 10 hour plane journey. The makers of MyFlight aeroplanes must be blind lesbian dwarfs, MySpace, MyFlight, MyArse! A quick type of ‘Deep Veined Thrombosis’ into Google brings you directly to the flight operator’s website!
Las Vegas – the city that never sleeps, a fortune won and lost on every deal, The Strip, a four mile long High Street paved with gold and lined with the plushest hotels in the world. So how come we end up in a shack! America’s Best Value Inn – mould on the ceiling, crickets on the floor, tiles hanging off the walls. But who cares, we’re in Vegas!
Our first priority was food and we lunched in what would become a regular breakfast stop – Coco’s American Diner, which is EXACTLY like that ‘Any of you pricks move…’ diner on Pulp Fiction – EXACTLY. Uncannily in my back pocket is my wallet with ‘Bad Ass Mother Fucker’ stamped on it! Thankfully the diner wasn’t held up or robbed, although there was a sign in front of the till saying nothing higher than a $20 bill would be accepted during the graveyard shift.

Apparently pure oxygen is pumped through the floorboards of these countless casinos, to keep the gambler awake. There are no clocks – the city doesn’t sleep, although people do drift off at about 4am and things don’t get going until mid morning, but if you want to play roulette at 6am you can. We had a strategy; we were only going to play the tables on our last night, that way we wouldn’t end up skint half way through the week. So Saturday night we played Black Jack, minimum $10 bet. The pre-deal was that anything we won we would split 50/50. I bought $80 of chips and put $40 down on the first table and a couple of hours later walked away with $200. It was definitely beginner’s luck – 5 Black Jacks in one game! That was in the Mandalay Bay Hotel, also home to The House of Blues restaurant and venue, another regular haunt for ourselves. It was a cool bar decorated with bottle tops glued to the red walls in crucifix shapes and skulls painted everywhere. Downstairs was the venue, like a mini-Liverpool Royal Court hosting regular touring bands – this week its was POD, The Spazmastics, Jamie Callum and Ministry, the latter of whom we saw (see review). We also saw Arsenal limp out of the Champions League final at noon on Wednesday at the House of Blues; one of the few places to show soccer. The Americans don’t understand real sport! What’s all this American Football, Baseball and Basketball rubbish!? Every bar in town had one of them on. These hotels are not just hotels, they’re a community, a town, a leisure centre (sorry center) in their own right, and you can spend an entire day out of the blistering 104deg sun outside within the sanitised domains that this city has to offer. You can eat, gamble, drink, shop, swim, visit the zoo, go clubbing, see concerts, go the theatre all under one roof! Incredible!
More when it surfaces….

Spinning Home

Did a video shoot for Homespun to promote their new single Badman. The initial idea was to have the frontman Terry abducted in a sack during a gig, some nice enclosed shots of him singing in the sack, the band in the back of a van playing and then the ‘body’ being dumped outside a police station.
Of course, the storyboard goes clean out of the window on the day! We had the band dressed with vicar collars playing in the back of this big van with 3 cameras on them and torches for lighting – the van was then driven over speed bumps and round corners, so the band were thrown around everywhere! Dunno what that’ll turn out like as most of the torches became unhinged!
The song is called Badman, so we introduced a bad man to the proceedings; a menacing character in white biohazard overalls and a rabbit face mask sprayed black. Bad man lurked, stalked and haranged the band throughout the rest of the day and the Gods were definitely looking down upon us at the Nova car park in Prestatyn as the fog came rolling in off the sea. We had originally planned to film the band outdoors at The Ffrith’s disused car park, but the barriers prevented us getting the van in (they’ve had Traveller problems there for years), so the fog set the perfect backdrop. More than perfect – fucking fantastic! A quick change for Terry, Damien and Tony into white shirts, ties and pants and they set up on the prom with this superb misty grey background. I had recorded 3 versions of the song – normal, twice as fast, half as slow (speed change in videos are all the rage) and the bad man should look pretty good doing weird things at different speeds to the band. We then used the sack abduction idea and one by one the band were picked off while playing. The fog on the beach was too good an opportunity to leave out, so the bad man and the band were filmed walking in and out of it. Homespun’s manager Steve also made an appearance dressed, bizarrely as a nun and, looked very disturbing in a Robbie Coltrane kind of way. For the finale we had the whole band being forced into the sack on the beach and bad man and nun tried despairingly to drag them of into the fog. Unfortunately the bastards were far too heavy, so Terry was left in there and dragged off instead.
The autograph hunters got their momentos and we headed home.
Crew for the day: Terry Foster (Homespun / voc,gtr), Tony Tuna (Homespun / drms), Damien (Homespun / bass), Steve Semichilled (Homespun / manager, nun). 1000 Words - Paul Sutherland, Neil Crud, Gordon Hardman, Rob Mediapod, Sparky. And, of course Bad Man.
Great day – it’ll be an even better video!

The day after headed to The Vic in Menai Bridge for a BBC Radio Wales live broadcast featuring Akira The Don and Brave Captain (review). Met Sync off the train station (as I was already in Bangor) and had a pint and chat with Alan Holmes (of Ectogram) and Huw Prestatyn (from Rhuddlan!). Then bombed it back to Rhyl for 11.20pm to Bar Blu, to catch Jives Room (review) in robust form.

And hurrah!! – Finished The Alarm’s ‘Raindown’ video – Paul Suths came round and with a little tweaking he gave the nod!! Yes at last! He’s taken the tapes for the remainder of the Gathering electric to edit, as it’ll give the final version a touch more variety. I’ve still got the acoustic night ones and my G5 is off to my Nain’s for the week I’m in Vegas (for safe keeping).

Curried

Paul brought the ‘missing’ tapes round and we pieced together The Racketears song ‘So Many Faces.’ What a great band, can’t put my finger on what it is about them, but its just very very good stuff! Superb laid back persona. The video looks excellent and really portrays what they’re about; or what I think they’re about at least!

Also showed Paul Raindown, but he’s still not happy with it, Paul’s looking for less lip-synch and more broad concert shots. Mike Peters phoned me asking about it as well – so I nipped round to his rehearsal rooms and we watched it with tour manager Liam and a loitering Kirk Brandon. They were basically of the same thinking; more ‘great’ shots and less lip-synch. The single comes out in the States next month and they’re going to use the video off the Under Attack DVD as the main promo and use this ‘live’ one for the website.
Mike is off to New York week after next, while I’ll be in Las Vegas, so we’re going to get together in the next few days and do a preliminary for the Gathering video – basically to see how we piece the songs together – it’d be nice if we could do something a bit different rather than your average live video. Yes, the editing I’ve done so far is very different to your standard concert vids (and far better, even if I say so myself), there’s more feeling gone into them – passion, because that’s how I feel about music, that’s how Paul Suths feels as well; so it’ll always be 1000% from 1000 Words! (Marketing campaign being drawn up right now!).

Kirk Brandon is off on a European tour with Spear of Destiny so I gave Liam a copy of PSST’s video ‘Now Is The Time For England’ on the premise that its played on the big screen before the gigs!

Paul and Rob will be finalising the Complete Control Music (CCM) DVD – building a menu, EQ-ing the sound and matting the videos – hopefully on Friday.

Headed to Bar Blu for a Wednesday night of loud music – saw Glyn Bailey open up, even though watching acoustic sets is against my religion, he was ok – me and Ste Sync even clapped after 2 of the songs. Holyhead’s Hansons, DeMask played next – and had the sparse (by comparison with the last 2 weeks) crowd, leaping around. Amy’s voice is getting stronger (she is only 16 and about 2’4” !!) and you can’t fault their playing abilty – its technically spot on – the covers are getting less and their own material is far better live than on MP3. Unfortunately too many late nights and hardly any sleep got the better of me, so it was a garlic chicken madras hot at midnight, tucked up and fast asleep with half an hour.

Hank Bolliday

Got Broadband up and running at Crud Towers so did a 6am radio show! Only cos I woke up at 5.25am with an asthma attack - 1st one this year...
Enjoyed the stuff I played - love that Physicists 'Brad Pitt' song, superb. Love The Racketears, oh just love it all... summer of love coming up, or is it summer of mud? Nah, not for me - well, not at V this year cos I ain't going.

I am however off to Las Vegas in a couple of weeks with Steve Sync - strictly business, not pleasure - we're on a mission to see how much money we can lose.

I made a welcome return to BBC Radio Wales last night - with a new half hour stint on Adam Walton's Show - this time playing new stuff, rather than the retro I was previously doing. New music really excites me! (in a loin-cloth kinda way) - played BLACK BOX THEME, OYSTERBOY, DALE DAVIES and DELTA NINE with at least 2 (maybe 3) of them getting their 1st airplay - and deservedly so.
Felt really good to be back on the radio and Walton and I sounded almost professional (almost).

Did The Alarm single 'Raindown' for the second time after Paul Suths said the first one wasn't up to our high standards. Can take criticism 2 ways - you can sulk, or you can take heed and do better. I took heed and did better - at least I hope so - looks much better now.

Awaiting RACKETEARS tapes to finish the Complete Control showcase - all looking good so far.

Had a final meeting with Homespun over their forthcoming video - we start filming on May 9th.

Also looks like we're filming a 3 day GONG festival in Amsterdam in November... Cosmic...

The Week That Was

Had a totally shit week - moved to a two floored apartment (posh word for flat) in Rhyl for not very good reasons so my head has been further up my arse than usual!

Met with Homespun, we're going to be doing a video for their song 'Badman' - filming in 2 weeks.
Mike Peters dropped off a copy of the single mix for 'Raindown' - it's shorter and more to the point than the LP version. I think its going to be a download only single, and The Alarm want a Gathering video of the song and a montage of the forthcoming Gathering DVD.
Nearly finshed 'Rescue Me', but like I said, it's been a hard week.
Started on Portrait of A Lifetime - using them as a tester for the ninja caveman footage we caprtured last year - looks good. Me and Paul also finished editing Tonnica's track for Complete Control Music - didn't use Rob's footage after all - looks great, and really like their approach.

Saw The Affliction at Bar Blu last Wednesday, great set - they've come on well these last few months - the blending of Moo's Kinks outlook on life with Steve and Cumi's Sons of Selina influence has worked well.
Ephesus were ok and Tom's Huge Elevation from France were pretty decent, like a garagey Jesus & Mary Chain - only with 2 female guitarists. Birds are great!

Watched Liverpool do Chelski in the FA Cup semi-final, well, from the comforts of The Swan in Rhyl - I did have a ticket but sold it yesterday morning.
The drinking started at 5pm and we stayed out, heading for The Dudley to see Sonic Boom Six, Juz, Random Hand and Scott Bakers - don't remember much cos I was very very drunk at the time...

Whatso Good About Friday?

Finished Killionaire - did it in black and white - looks good - unusual song 'Gerroff You Monster!' - also finished Iris with their song Breathe - really good stuff - did it in saturated colour to compensate for the lack of any decent lighting at the Conwy gig. Need to do Racketears next, which I'm looking forward to and then grab the High Def stuff off Rob's camera to do Tonnica.
Going to have a Gathering meeting as I'm on song 16 (out of about 40) and think the others should do some as well - it'll make it a bit more interesting also.

Did another radio show - quite enjoyed it. Also had a call off Adam Walton - I start a new slot on his Sunday night show in a couple of weeks - seeking out new talent from the North Wales coast.

Right - need to go now and think about the bassist from the Bitchpups for a short while...

1000 Jobs

Got stuck into the Complete Control Music footage we recorded a coupla weeks ago. Captured the opening song by Tonnica - enjoyed their set when we filmed it, they were like way beyond their years and sounded like the mad bits that Gintis do (the tuneless noisy bits) with a smattering of heroin thrown in for good/bad taste. I would've got stuck into editing it tonight, but Rob accidentally filmed the song in HD (High Definition) and my capturing camera said 'what the fuck is this!' - so I'll have to wait and get Rob's camera round to capture his footage. I did start a title sequence as Rhys (he of Sibrydion) at Complete Control wants the emphasis on NORTH WALES for the showreel DVD. Should have Iris, Killionaire and The Racketears all captured tomorrow.

I've left the PSST editing to Paul Sutherland and Rob, it should be done by the early hours - see! I'm not that stupid! While they're busily chopping away, I'm relaxing with a bottle of wine in one hand and Green Wing on the telly! - Well, that and the fact that the Crudlets aren't very well today, oh, and I've had the 'flu.
The PSST video is looking excellent, the hardest thing is finding footage of Paul Scouse where he doesn't look like a football hooligan! Dean surprisingly looks just plain silly rather than intimidating, and Bob (of Carbon Atom) looks cool. But its the kids that make the video - they look great. Yes there are some ethics involved, when a Scouse connected band are in the last 32 of The Scum's Football Anthems competition, but I suppose it's their money (The Scum's) that PSST would be taking if they won. I hope they do...

Sent a demo edit of Sonic Boom Six to their manager this evening, it was pretty hard to cut down (as will the Complete Control stuff at the same gig) as the venue wasn't really blessed with lights or people! So it'll be a pull out all the stops effort to get that best clip! The demo looks pretty good tho' nice and choppy for that punk/ska Senser type feel the band portray.

Bumped into Tom Scriven (ex Carbonari / Black Swans) at Bar Blu last Wednesday, he was wearing a hat and it wasn't for a good few minutes of chatting away to him that I realised I wasn't talking to Leigh Cox!!!! Alcohol is ace innit....

Final Cut Slow

Been having problems with video editing this weekend - the program I use (Final Cut Pro) has been running slow and dropping frames on song #14 of The Alarm's Gathering 2006 project I'm working on.
I've tried cleaning out my systems - although not a complete expert on Apple Macs (I use the G5 solely for video editing - the PC is for EVERYTHING else) - it didn't work.
I've tried to create an oldy-worldy effect on the opening this next song and it looks great but the G5 Mac just won't play it - I've reduced the frame rate, the compression - tried to get it to Print To Video - everything, but it won't play back. But a study of t'internet lead me to Larry Jordan's FCP website and it turns out that the program struggles if you're down to your last 15% of space on your hard drive, Mine's a 200GB and I'm down to 30% left - so I guess its time to give ex-GMX Stuns bassist, Steve Buckley some more of my cash and purchase another drive from his shoppe The Computer World in Colwyn Bay.

Dairy of a madman

Been far too busy to post blogs for nearly a year - it'll all be in my memoirs when I'm dead!
Updated the link2wales site immensly this week - having 'flu does have its advantages!

Did my radio show - started leaving it to every couple of weeks as I found doing it weekly was a chore rather than the fun it should be - so there's no pressure now - if I'm busy it can wait - if I'm not then I'll spring one on you... Not sure how many listeners I get - my figures of people listening in through my http://www.link2wales.co.uk website is about 500 a week - but it can also be heard thru http://www.greendragonradio.com and podcast - so it could be hundreds, thousands or just two more! - Who knows, who cares...

Hard working for 1000 Words Productions on video materials - I'm on The Alarm's Gathering, which we filmed last January - I'm up to song 15 on the Saturday night of the gig (Rescue Me) - all looking pretty good so far - been watching videos of other bands for inspiration, some are very mundane - so I try to add an extra edge to the edits without going over the top. So far so good - even if the G5 Mac is struggling with the latest song as I've piled loadsa filters onto it to try and make it look like an old film.
Paul and Rob have chopped one of Sonic Boom Six's live songs from the gig we filmed last Saturday in Conwy Civic Hall - unfortunately their manager Liam phoned to say they'd like us to do the song 'Your Daddy Was a Punk Rocker' - so we'll have to do that one instead.
The twosome have also made strides on PSST's video, which we filmed the week before SB6 - its their song for England's World Cup (err) dream - you can vote for it on The Sun website http://www.thesun.co.uk/anthems (DO IT NOW!).

Also got Tonnica, Iris, Killionaire and The Racketears to do videos for - its all filmed, just gotta get PSST and SB6 out of the way first - should be good fun.

V Festival 2005 – A Stag Weekend in a Field

 

“Sorry, but I’m absolutely cunted.”

So began V Festival 2005, with Andy Fatman accidentally phoning his mother instead of his wife-to-be and announcing his condition in the most Fatman way possible. She might not have known what the word meant, but she knew exactly what he was. And fair play – Fatman had every right to be ruined. Virgin’s Branson Regime had thoughtfully organised this year’s V as his stag do (or maybe it was to rake in £18 million in gate receipts). Either way, it worked.

We descended en masse: myself (Neil Crud), The Secretary, Steve Sync, Fairziff, Trevski, Jules, Stack, Pauline, Will, Pippa, Gaz, Jess, Richard, Joyce, Graham, Linda, Gareth, and a few more who melted into the blur. Arriving early Friday, Fatman upset the neighbours by claiming an oak tree as his own and shifting a few tents to establish “The Stag Tree Village.” Stack’s chemical toilet spared the ladies the horrors of festival latrines, while Fatman stocked up on his annual Imodium-and-bananas diet to avoid shitting until midweek.

Friday Night – Cans, Barriers, and Volvic Branding

Friday night is for drinking, not bands. By 3pm our 48-cans-each strategy was in full swing. The V rules forbid booze in the arena, but Andy Fatman was determined to cheat the system. His first attempt went spectacularly wrong: stumbling in his “cunted state,” he brought down an entire barrier and exposed his contraband to security, who pounced screaming, “He’s got cans!” No shame in that – but every other time he sauntered through, sometimes with ten Carlings stashed about his person. Legend.

Inside, we hit the corporate-branded Volvic Tent (remember when festivals weren’t full of bottled-water sponsorship?). A few years earlier it would’ve been all hoodies, whistles, and thumping house, but 2005 was the year guitars reclaimed the dancefloor. Instead of “bang bang bang,” we had 5,000 voices belting I Predict A Riot and Roll With It. Indie was king. House was dead.

Saturday – Bands, Booze, and Prodigy Firestarters

Stag weekend rules dictate: wake up hungover, crack open a can at 6am, repeat. By Carling No.4, Fatman was crafting a cardboard drumkit for Gaz while boasting he had “red wine, wet wipes, and Rohypnol in case he got lucky” (Abi Titmuss being his highly questionable target).

Musically, we swerved the main stage (“Rooster can suck my corporate cock,” declared Fatman) and made for the Channel 4 tent. No Hope For New Jersey claimed to be the saviours of rock ’n’ roll – perhaps a touch optimistic. El Presidente followed, and their Bryan Ferry–styled frontman and infectious glam-funk hooks had the tent bouncing. A surprise highlight.

The Frames provided a lull – my notes from then include gems like “Andy needs a wank on his own shit” and “Old women’s witch tits.” Blame the cider. The Ordinary Boys passed me out completely, though Fatman thought they were “fucking ace.”

The night belonged to The Prodigy. Tens of thousands packed in for Keith Flint’s return. Firestarter lit up with a flare in the crowd, and the whole field convulsed. Punk energy fully restored.

Sunday – From Goldie Looking Chain to Oasis (Yawn)

The Stands opened Sunday with a typical Scouse Zanzibar sound – all Beatles echoes and Zutons cameos. Then came Goldie Looking Chain, safe-as-fuck dole wallers from South Wales, shouting about “No Win No Fee” and batter-based sexcapades. Comedy genius.

Elsewhere, Good Charlotte tried their best – Sync thought they were “a breath of fresh air” before revising his opinion to “spleen-churningly average.” The Bravery split the camp (“Duran Duran from New York” vs. “total ROCK show”), while Kaiser Chiefs proved why I Predict A Riot was the anthem of the year.

By contrast, The Streets fell flat (“a poor man’s Goldie Looking Chain”), and when Oasis ambled onstage, even Cigarettes & Alcohol couldn’t hide the fact that the Gallaghers looked bored stiff. We bailed for The Chemical Brothers – impressive beats, but watching two blokes press play hardly screamed “live.”

True salvation came in the form of Robert Plant, striding through Gallows Pole like the legend he is. A brief, glorious moment of history amidst the corporate indie gloss.

Mud, Piss, and Stag-Do Glory

As the heavens opened, washing 60,000 gallons of accumulated piss across the site, even our mighty oak tree surrendered. Tents collapsed, cans floated, and we drowned in lager, mud, and laughter.

V Festival 2005 was bloated, oversold, and corporate as hell. But it was also a stag do, a reunion, a drunken circus of smuggled Carling and rock ’n’ roll chaos. Fatman wouldn’t have had it any other way.

V Festival 2003 – Weston Park Review

 

Three days of cider, drunkeness, campervans, and corporate-sponsored madness – welcome to V2003. By now, the Fatman crew, Crud, Sync, Fairziff and assorted hangers-on had festival survival down to a science: arrive early, pitch the tents before the Strongbow takes hold, and dive headfirst into the weekend with no thought for livers or long-term damage.

Friday Night: Warm-Up Mayhem

The festival began the way all good ones do – raiding the fences into the campervan site, hooking up with the Fatman clan and their converted removal vans complete with sound systems, and sinking enough booze to forget which field you’re in. Friday was less about music and more about setting the tone: overindulgence, near-misses (Mrs Fatman narrowly avoided concussion from a falling fence panel), and the first of many late-night parties.

Saturday: Saxophones, Scousers & Strongbow

The Zutons had the honour of opening the NME Stage, proving Liverpool still had a stranglehold on the UK indie scene. Their funky guitar-sax combo divided opinion but “Pressure” hit hard enough to get early heads nodding. The Stands followed with a laid-back Cast-like sound, while The Coral later in the day showed exactly why they’d risen above their peers – effortlessly pulling off their psychedelic shanties to a huge crowd.

Not every blast from the past worked though. James in ’01 had been euphoric, Happy Mondays in ’02 chaotic but fun – this year’s retro slot was Inspiral Carpets, and it was awkward. Like watching your mate’s dad dance at a wedding, the nostalgia curdled fast.

Morcheeba restored some calm with dreamy grooves, while elsewhere Echo & The Bunnymen’s greatest-hits swaggered into the weekend, Mac’s voice still commanding and Will Sergeant’s guitar sharp as ever. For many, that was the real Saturday highlight.

But not for all. While the Red Hot Chili Peppers pulled a suffocating crowd on the main stage – so packed the big screens were the only way to see them – a couple of thousand made the smarter choice. Over on the NME Stage, Underworld delivered the weekend’s true revelation. With lasers slicing the night sky and “King of Snake” rattling bones, Karl Hyde and Rick Smith turned V into a rave cathedral. By the time “Born Slippy” erupted, it was clear: the lucky few who skipped the Chilis had witnessed the set of V2003.

Sunday: Killing Joke & Coldplay Clashes

Sunday started with bleary breakfasts cooked on Fairziff’s trusty VW stove and more cider to wash away the hangovers. Echo & The Bunnymen set the tone with another soaring set, and Damian Rice plus Athlete kept things mellow for those still piecing themselves together.

But the day belonged to Killing Joke. Jaz Coleman stormed onstage in war paint and bone-strewn robes, leading the band through a blistering half-hour that spanned new anthems (“Blood On Your Hands,” “Total Invasion”) and classics like “Wardance” and “Requiem.” It was ferocious, theatrical, and all too short.

Later, Goldfrapp’s lush electronica washed over the dance tent like a dream, while Turin Brakes impressed against the odds with a packed crowd despite Foo Fighters dominating the main stage. Coldplay headlined to the largest audience of the weekend, but not everyone was convinced – some of us slipped away to a nearby bar where the DJ spun Joy Division and The Undertones instead, a far better soundtrack for Coldplay refuseniks.

Feeder closed the NME Stage with a tight, uplifting set that proved them festival headliner material, ending Sunday on a high before the inevitable stumble back to camper parties and more late-night chaos.

Monday: The Hangover Epilogue

By Monday morning Weston Park was a wasteland of litter and broken tents. Bacon butties with chilli sauce softened the blow as the last of the gang packed up, swapping favourite moments and crowning the best festival T-shirt spotted all weekend: “Midgets Make Me Laugh.”

Verdict

V2003 had everything – the highs of Underworld, Echo & The Bunnymen, and Killing Joke; the lows of Inspiral Carpets trying too hard; and the chaos of campervan raves, bungee cages, and Strongbow-fuelled stupidity. It was messy, funny, occasionally transcendent, and above all a reminder of why we keep coming back: for those rare “festival moments” when the music, madness, and mayhem all line up just right.

RANT about Cocaine Festival headline in Daily Post

Originally posted on link2wales website and also link2wales blog
In what was an absurd attack on the hugely successful Wakestock Festival held last weekend near Abersoch the Daily Post newspaper sank into tabloid journalistic hell in a pathetic attempt to boost circulation sales. The headline ‘Cocaine Festival’ greeted readers on Monday morning & the following 2 pages illustrated how shocked reporter Hugo Duncan uncovered ‘Drugs chaos at North Wales surfing event.’ What a pile of complete bollocks. It’s patently obvious this journalist either has aspirations of working for The Sun or thought a rock festival was something Bryn Terfel holds for his opera friends every year.

I was at Wakestock on Saturday with Pocket Venus, Treehouse 3 & Reef & none of us had to surf down mountains of cocaine, stand on blocks of cannabis or catch collapsing party-goers. It looks like Hugo Duncan was having all the fun as I don’t recall this ‘massive drugs party’ taking place. Wasn’t it a lucky coincidence he took his own photographer with him to capture the moment he was offered cannabis (shocking isn’t it!?) by a reveller? Quite frankly, those who have read the Daily Post article & attended the festival will probably deduct that to have written a story like that you’d have to be on drugs as the guy was obviously hallucinating! And anyone lying on the ground had obviously come under the effect as the ‘cocktail of drink & drugs took its toll.’ There is no denying that drug intake went on at this festival, as it does in every town every day; it is a scourge, but the level that the report descended to is quite laughable had it not been so potentially damaging to the O’Shea Wakestock organisers. Would you believe that as Reef blasted out their heavy guitar riffs most of the audience went wild! It must have been a frightening experience for poor Hugo (you’ll never make the NME sunshine, maybe Y Gadlas if you’re lucky). Thankfully the North Wales Police viewed the festival for what it was, a huge success, extremely friendly, no arrests & a huge boost to the income of a struggling part of our country.

There were 6 stabbing related incidents in Rhyl the same evening (2 with knives, 4 with bottles), I didn’t see any news stories on them.

Unlike the Daily Post, this website will not close ranks. Hugo Duncan & his editor are welcome to reply to this item.

——————————————————–

They did…. (this from Mark Brittain)

WHEN the Daily Post visited the Wakestock Festival last Saturday evening, little did we know that we were about to stir up a hornet’s nest. Mind you, we didn’t know that we were about to witness scenes of blatant dope smoking and cocaine sniffing either.

Our report which appeared on Monday, under the headline “Cocaine Festival”, led to a total (so far) of 15 irate phone calls, e-mails, faxes and letters, all of them critical, and some extremely abusive, but all voicing virtually identical criticisms.Faced, therefore, with demands for an apology, it is incumbent on us to answer our critics and state our case – which I shall do having given you a taste of the more reasoned correspondence, which, for reasons of space and repetition, I have been obliged to condense – for which I do apologise.

First off, a very temperate rebuke from Mrs C. Fox, of Pwllheli. “My husband and I were present at the prizegiving and live music on Saturday night, having watched the competition events on Friday and Saturday,” she wrote. “I was amazed at your account of events and find it difficult to believe we were at the same venue! We have been to a great many live music events over the last 30 years and felt security arrangements were satisfactory – my bag was searched before we were allowed into the arena, and at no time did we feel threatened or see any `chaotic scenes’. As I understand it, the 15-year-old boy mentioned in the article had in fact been drinking `Red Bull’ and had his drink `spiked’ as suggested. As for `ten people’ climbing over the fence and `letting party-goers in and out at will’, you then state that `security guards replaced the fence soon after’ – and there were between 3,500 and 5,000 people present!!

“While I agree there were people a bit worse for wear towards the end of the evening, are you naive enough to think this doesn’t happen – here, or anywhere else?”It is a sign of the times that some people do take recreational drugs, and, as with anything, if you go looking for them, you will find them. We saw no one obviously flaunting or offering them. “I was, however, encouraged to hear that the police were happy with the way things went and, after all, there seemed to be no reports of violence as there have been in the past at other live music events in North Wales.

“It would be a terrible shame if this event ceased to exist after only three years due to one distorted view, when so much hard work has gone into organising it each year.”

Next up, Heather Torkington described our report as “spectacularly inaccurate and quite frankly pathetic”, but took immediate exception to our incorrect reference in the subheadline to “surfing”.

“Wakeboarding and surfing are two very different sports demanding totally opposite weather conditions and equipment … such a blatant inaccuracy is inexcusable,” she wrote.”I am absolutely disgusted with your `exclusive scoop’ and I, and other local business people, hope you fully intend to apologise to the organisers.

“Abersoch, like many villages in Wales, really felt the pain of foot-andmouth disease last year and our local tourist board are working so hard with people like O’Shea to organise events that can help regenerate our businesses and extend the season – you have quite simply gone out of your way to defame the festival and pull out all stops to prevent it happening next year.

“The festival has bought thousands of people to the area to enjoy fabulous music and an exciting growing sport in the heart of our beautiful Pen Llyn – surely this is something to be proud of. We enjoyed our busiest weekend this year, which is exactly what was needed during such a gloomy summer. The organisers spent the past year working tirelessly with the council/ police and authorities to make sure that every Health and Safety avenue was explored. If you go to any pub in any town in this country and ask for drugs, you will find them. I am hardly surprised that your stunt of going undercover to find drugs was fruitful! I was reassured by the police presence and security measures, but most of all I was bowled over by the amazing atmosphere people of all ages (I spotted at least two grannies!) having a fantastic time. I think that 10 people trying to climb over a fence is an impressively small number and that security should be congratulated. I arrived around 9.30 to have my bag checked, and witnessed enough police to put the fear of god into any potential drug user. The standard of music was unbelievable – with a superb mix of local bands and emerging bands from all over the coun-try – as for Reef, what a coup to have them play on their return to the UK after a sell-out tour of the US.”

Mike Atherton wrote, expressing his “disgust and disappointment. I have attended the Wakestock Festival over the past three years and very much enjoyed it on all occasions. Every year, a lot of people have a great time at what is widely recognised as a well organised, efficient and troublefree event. As, indeed, it was this year. Articles like yours cause great harm and send out a very negative message to all the people who might not have attended and been able to see that the very large majority of several thousand people had a great night in a great location. I would imagine that, if any journalist went to any event of any scale, looking solely to expose it as a drugs festival, they would indeed be able to find people with drugs.

“Why did you not mention that the Wakeboarding – not surfing – sends out a good message to young people of the benefits of healthy outdoor sports? Why did you focus on a small part of the festival – that, yes, there would indeed be some people taking drugs – and not the great music, good organisation, or lack of any trouble over the whole event? That the police again reported that there was no trouble and are very happy with the event organisation? Or the fact that a relatively small place has brought big names, from both Wakeboarding and the music world, to a beautiful tourist area, boosting and strengthening the local economy after much hard work and planning from local people?”

Someone called Pru e-mailed to say: “Can appreciate your concern with the drug problems that are apparent in society today – just a shame that you chose to pick on one event to highlight it. Not a very good angle considering that, if you go looking for such things at any festivals, then there will always be that element. Just thankful that there were only two incidents out of a possible 5,000. I came away from the event very happy, my only concerns being the camping capacity. The wakeboarding was spectacular, you must agree? Those riders are the most gutsy I have seen in a long time – shame that you didn’t feel it was worth a mention.”

Finally, Neil Crud, manager of Pocket Venus, one of the bands who performed, wrote to “protest strongly”. Although there is no denying that drug intake went on, to portray the event as a cocaine free-for-all is absurd and it is blatantly obvious that you went to ‘dig the dirt’ rather than report on an arrest-free and successful gathering. I spent the entire day at Wakestock and drove home in the early hours of Sunday. Having to stay sober, I vividly remember not seeing mountains of cannabis and cocaine, nor did I fall over any comatose 15 year-olds. Drugs are a scourge on society, but to tar 5,000 people with the brush of being in a `massive drugs party’ is an absolute lie.”

The Daily Post, in line with its policy, is pleased to publish the above “rights of reply” and, for what it’s worth, we deny absolutely that we went to deliberately bury, not to praise, the festival. Let me state unequivocally that we wholeheartedly support any venture which brings tourists to North Wales. We went to report honestly on a festival and found instead, sadly, what we later wrote about, and which we stand by. It may well be that, by concentrating on the drug use, we failed to adequately reflect the many excellent things also going on.

However, if the future of the festival is to be assured, then open drugtaking, especially of Class A drugs like cocaine, must not be tolerated. A minority, to be sure, but one which tainted the rest of the festival and which could, if allowed to flourish, jeopardise it.

By highlighting the problem, we hope we may have nipped it in the bud. To any disappointed readers, we say sorry – but not for taking the antidrugs stance we did.

We will never, ever, apologise for that.

CrudCast #3

Just went out tonight, and what a mad mix it was. Streaming quality is still ropey as hell — sounds like you’re listening through a wet sock at 24k — but that’s the state of the net in 2001. Doesn’t matter though, because the content carried it, well almost...

We kicked things off with The BT Call, still the funniest phone rage ever captured: some poor chimp at BT phoning an angry Geordie who threatens to wring his “scrawny fucking neck.” Proper gold.

Then it was into the music:

• FLINCH – “Lucky”
  Wrexham lads, smartly dressed, semi-metal with a melodic crunch. “Lucky” is their best tune so far — tight, heavy, catchy.

• CARPET – “One Two Fuck You” (Live)
  Straight out of Rhyl, recorded at The Breeding Ground. Rough, loud, and couldn’t care less. Pure live chaos, bottled.

• HYFRYD
  From the warped head of Johnny R-Bennig, all the way from Gwalchmai. Twisted, surreal, and sounds like it was beamed in from another planet, as was Johnny.

• SKINFLICK – “Two Ton Loser”
  Bangor’s mutant industrial punk crew, always up to strange nocturnal antics. They don’t play by anyone’s rules, and this track proves it.

• HOBO – “Trencherman”
  Ended on something special. “Trencherman” is just wonderful — deep, sprawling, and sticks in your head long after.

So yeah, that was the show. Rough stream, local bands, weird humour, angry Geordies,

[AUDIO LONG SINCE REMOVED - NOTHING LASTS FOREVER - YOU SHOULD KNOW THAT BY NOW]

Legacies

Today was Nain Betws’ funeral — a solemn moment for Kev’s family, and one more in what’s become a sad pattern these past four years: the only time they all seem to gather anymore is to either marry or bury someone. A clan of professional mourners almost, not by choice but by frequency. It’s tragic how often grief brings people together when everyday life never quite manages to.

I didn’t go to the funeral. Declan's child-minder is on holiday, which meant there was no one to look after him, so the boy and I stayed put. Later, we’ll take a walk up to Knees Up Mother Brown in Betws-yn-Rhos — not to drown anything in drink, but maybe to reflect, remember, and let life carry on in its own messy, unpredictable way.

I’ve always found funerals to be strange rituals. Are they meant to help us mourn someone’s passing, or celebrate the life they led? And once you're gone, what’s left of you, really? A fleeting thought, maybe — a moment someone has when they pass by your old house, or a name that lingers in a half-remembered anecdote. Is that your legacy? Shouldn’t it be something that lives longer and louder?

I sometimes wonder if even someone like Hitler obsessed over that same question — the desire not to be forgotten, regardless of the cost.

I know some people who actually scan the obituaries looking for a funeral to attend — to offer support, maybe, or just to break the routine. Me? I’d rather mourn in my own way, in my own space, without the religious pageantry or platitudes. Let me reflect on someone’s life in silence, or through stories, not hymns. I saw it with Malcolm — the church service wasn’t for him, but done to keep his mum happy. It was a strange compromise: grief dressed up in someone else’s rules.

It makes me think — when I go, how should I say goodbye? Should I plan it in advance? Make it something unorthodox and wild just to throw a wrench in the system? Or should I just leave it up to whoever’s left behind to sort it all out?

But if I do that, there’s a real risk that some vicar will step in to exploit my death — to milk the moment for comfort and control, turning my absence into a platform for their own beliefs.

Maybe I’ll sidestep it entirely. Maybe I’ll just donate my body to science — let a group of medical students have a good laugh flicking my eyeballs across the lecture theatre or playing rugby with my brain. That’d be a send-off no priest could hijack.

Placebo - Royal Court, Liverpool

We were running late. What was supposed to be a quick drink—a pint of Director’s Cut, washed down with a couple of draught Budweisers at Fatty Arbuckles—ended up taking far longer than expected. But it didn’t really matter. After all, we were celebrating the first birthday of the newest Crudlet (my affectionate nickname for the kids).

Once we’d safely shipped the Crudlet and Fatman junior off to various in-laws, we set out for the Royal Court in Liverpool. The last time I’d been there was fourteen years ago, when I saw Lux Interior climb the PA stack, chuck wine bottles at the overenthusiastic bouncers, and entertain us with The Cramps’ wild music.

This time we had tickets for the posh seats in the balcony, and I made sure to warn Mrs Crud and Mrs Fatman about the severity of the balcony’s steep slope. They clung onto their seats like their lives depended on it, murmuring the Lord’s Prayer under their breath to fight off the creeping vertigo.

I never caught the support band’s full set, only their final three songs, but I have to apologise to them because they were seriously good. Even if they did pinch that riff from me — the very same one PSST stole from me eight years ago. Fatman and I agreed in the bar afterward that it was a real shame we missed the bulk of their performance.

Then came the bill: “That’ll be £12 please.”

Fatman helped pull me off the floor, waving his sweater at me to clear my head as I came to. For a moment, I thought the barman was charging £12 for two and a half pints of lager and a lemonade. Sadly, that was the reality, which explained why the bar was so quiet despite the venue being sold out.

And then, finally, the reason for living, the reason we exist, the reason man invented music itself: Placebo. I’d seen them two years ago in Manchester and bought their new album the next day. Back then, I knew every song they played live from that album, because they were just that good.

This time around, I flipped the script. I’d spent last night playing their freshly released Black Market Music album, so I recognised every new song they played. The album is just as brilliant as the last. Placebo have that rare gift for writing killer hooks that stick with you. If Special K doesn’t become a single from this album, I’ll kiss Ann Widdecombe—tongues firmly involved.

Sure, there were crowd-pleasers, but unlike some bands—like the Manics, whose gigs feel like a greatest-hits countdown—Placebo bring something more subtle, more nuanced. At one point, Brian Molko even slipped into a self-confessed Elton John mode, playing Peeping Tom behind the piano with perfect poise.

Their set list is growing in both size and stature, spanning early classics like Bruised Pristine and Nancy Boy, anthems like Without You I’m Nothing and Every Me and Every You, and fresh tracks like Black Eyed and Haemoglobin.

The show closed perfectly with Pure Morning, wrapping up a treasured 90 minutes. To play any longer would have spoiled the magic. Rule number one: always leave the audience wanting more.

Doctor’s orders? More Placebo, please.

The Betws-y-Coed Incident

 

Steve told me a belter of a tale, one that unfolded a few years back on what was supposed to be a quiet camping trip in the scenic woods of Betws-y-Coed. A group of lads – Mike, Roger, Dave, Mikey J and the usual suspects – had pitched up for a weekend of beers, banter and bad behaviour.

By chance, a party of young female ramblers set up camp nearby. Fate, as it often does, conspired to mix the two groups.

Mike was well-oiled by evening, tanked up on lager and, unusually for him, introduced to Bob Marley’s favourite pastime courtesy of the ramblers. A few drags in and he was woozy, pale around the gills, but still keen to impress. With slurred charm and quick-fire patter, he managed to win over one of the girls. When he suggested a late-night drive, she agreed without hesitation.

Now, Mike’s driving skills weren’t exactly sharp on the best of days – and beer plus hash didn’t improve matters. The two of them wove their way along the narrow country lanes until they found the perfect pull-in: a secluded lay-by. Romance blossomed, lips locked, and for a few minutes it was heading the right way.

Then Mike whispered he had to answer a call of nature. She assumed it was the usual tree-side pit stop. She checked her hair in the wing mirror while he stumbled off into the dark. But Mike hadn’t mentioned the full extent of the “call.” After a day’s worth of booze and the alien effect of hashish, his body finally staged a protest. He dropped his trousers, squatted, and – mid-poo – promptly fell asleep.

Minutes passed. Concern turned to confusion. The girl stepped out of the car to find her new flame collapsed in a ditch, pants round his ankles, a steaming log between his legs. To her, it looked like he’d suffered some kind of fit. Terrified, she bolted back to camp in hysterics.

By the time the lads found him and shook him awake, the damage was done. The poor rambler would never forget the sight: a romantic spin in the hills ending with a snoring suitor, trousers at half-mast, and nature’s cruel sense of humour on full display.

A tragedy? Maybe for her. For the rest of us, though, a story for the ages.

Guinness, Trains & The Fluff

It all kicked off around 4:30pm in Bangor at The Ship, raising a pint (or several) to Alan Fisher, who was making his grand exit from Jewson. A celebratory pint of Guinness in hand, I found myself joking with Dewi Hughes, Mike, and Dewi Coch about the barmaid’s top — or more accurately, the very strategic Guinness-coloured stain on it. We decided, in our growing wisdom, that her breasts might be full of Irish stout. Turns out it was just from leaning against the pump, but hey, it made the 15-minute wait for the next pint a little more entertaining.

By pint number three, the topic of conversation turned to a friend’s upcoming interview on Radio Cymru. Pre-fourth pint, I dashed across the road to grab a double cheeseburger — pricier than the usual kebab house fare, but so worth it.

Then came the 10-metre crawl to The White Lion for two more pints of iron-rich goodness. Afterwards, we democratically voted (with great seriousness) to return to The Ship for another round. Somewhere around pint seven, I casually mentioned heading to Rhyl to catch The Fluff live. One of the guys decided to hop on the train with me, claiming seven pints was his limit. Sensible.

Of course, the legendary British Fail hotline (0345 484950) told us there’d be a train at 10:22pm. Lies. We had an hour to kill, so off we went to Angels for a final pre-train pint — lager this time. Guinness was starting to feel like a meal.

I bid my mate farewell at Llandudno Junction and made it to Rhyl just before midnight, sprinting to The Bistro in time for a lager and the last 20 minutes of The Fluff’s set.

Now, The Fluff and I go back a couple of years — I first saw them when I was doing my time DJ-ing at The Bistro. My crime? Knowing Martin Trehearn. The punishment? Thursday night slots. But The Fluff were a welcome relief from the sea of mediocrity that can quite often grace this stage.

Fast forward two years and they've leveled up — hard. Visually and aurally. Enter Krissy: 22, new lead singer, and exactly what the band needed. The locals weren’t wrong — her voice and stage presence gave the band a huge lift. The sound? A rich, psychedelic Britpop blend that instantly made me think they’d fit perfectly on Delerium’s roster (if they fancied kissing their souls goodbye).

Only complaints? I dropped a full pint of lager while, shall we say, “multi-tasking” outside the gents. And maybe — just maybe — the songs ended too soon. Just when they’d hit that sweet, free-form psychedelic groove, it was over. But you know what? It left me wanting more.

So I did what any true fan would do.

I ordered another one.

Les: Legend in His Own Lunchtime

 

Everyone knows a Les. The bloke who strolls in late, chest puffed out, carrying a head full of stories he’s desperate for you to believe. In his own mind, he’s lived three lives already — rock star, soldier, lothario — but in reality, he’s the guy in the corner, reheating yesterday’s tea and boring you to tears.

Les had a knack for fiction. He couldn’t just say he went to the pub; no, it had to be a “private lock-in with the landlord,” where the jukebox broke down and he had to “DJ the night away.” He couldn’t admit he spent a weekend in Rhyl; it became a “life-changing” trip that ended in him “saving a stranger from drowning.” Every day another Jackanory episode, spun to disguise the fact that he had absolutely nothing going on.

You could see him practising his swagger in the reflective glass of the office doors, combing his hair with the same pride a bird takes in arranging twigs. He thought he was winning, thought he was on a high. But really, he was just splashing about in an empty pool — a pool that dried up years ago while he was still bragging about how deep it was.

Les liked to play the big man, the ego booster. But scratch the surface and what you got was something more pathetic: a man who hid behind fake laughter, throwing out stories like confetti because the silence scared him. He was looking for scapegoats, excuses, someone else to blame for the fact that his life was smaller than the tall tales he told.

At work, we learned to nod along, let him spin his yarns, and wait until he drifted off to bother someone else. There’s only so many times you can hear about “that time he nearly played Wembley” before the words start curdling in your ears.

Les didn’t need enemies. He’d already doused himself in petrol, lit the match, and was too busy admiring his reflection in the flames to notice.