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.

SONS OF SELINA

Did my 1st SOS interview with a zine for ages, for Akasha Goth zine of Liverpool...

1/ FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE READERS WHOSE FORAYS INTO THE DARK HAVE NOT YET ENCOMPASSED THE BAND; WHO'S IN IT, HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN TOGETHER, WHAT INSTRUMENTS/EFFECTS DO YOU USE?

We're the football team of rock. We have a defence, midfield, attack & substitutes. In one form or another we've been the Sons Of Selina since October 1990 & 3 of us were together in a different band for 3 years before that. Instruments? Vocals, 3 guitars, bass, mono-synths, keyboards & drums.

2/WHAT MADE YOU CHOOSE YOUR BAND'S NAME?

4 pints of Guinness whilst sitting on a plush settee in the Cayley Arms in Rhos-on-Sea in North Wales.

3/WHICH IS THE FAVOURITE OF YOUR OWN GIGS & WHY?

In the early chaotic days we turned up at a Welsh language festival, we were too drunk to stand up, let alone play so 3 of us guitar, bass & drums made an unholy racket, insulted the 800 people present to the extent that they wanted to kill us, & then we left very quickly, taking somebody else's drumkit with us. We went through a phase of gatecrashing places, plugging in & playing, the Uk Subs were a pushover & always let us play but the more interesting venues were a bus station on a Sunday morning, a couple of town centres on Saturday afternoons, a college dinner hall at dinner time & a children's party on a holiday camp.

4/WHAT'S ON YOUR STEREO RIGHT NOW?

In my living room it's The Box- Orbital, in my office it's Exhale by Sound Inhaler, & in the car it's the Purple Electric Violin Concerto by Ed Alleyne Johnson.

5/WHO WOULD YOU MOST LIKE TO GIG WITH & WHY?

Michelle Gayle because it would probably be the opportunity I'd ever get (however remote) of sleeping with her.

6/DESCRIBE YOUR BEST & WORST MOMENTS & WHY?

In the band- playing live on Mark Radcliffe's Radio One show, it had to be the biggest rush of adrenalin I had ever experienced. The worst- getting food poisoning on tour in Holland.

7/DO YOU HAVE ANY 'IDOLS' OR PEOPLE YOU ADMIRE?

No.

8/ARE THERE ANY INFLUENCES FROM LIFE THAT YOU INCLUDE IN YOUR MUSIC?

Everything we see & experience is an influence therefore life is included in our music, I tend to write all our songs when I'm uptight, annoyed or pissed off, we haven't written anything for 12 months so I guess I'm enjoying life at the moment.

9/WHAT DO YOU THINK LIFE WILL BE LIKE AFTER THE YEAR 2000?

Won't it be strange when we're all fully grown, meet you there 2 o'clock by the fountain down the road, I never knew that you'd get married, I would be standing here on my own on that damp & lonely Thursday years ago.

10/WHAT BANDS HAVE YOU GIGGED WITH & WHERE?

Membranes, UK Subs, Blitzkrieg, Culture Shock, Metal Duck, PMT, Boquet Of Thorns, Anhrefn, Cerebral Fix, Rubber Whips, Clan Morrigan, Mantaray, Porcupine Tree, Suicidal Flowers, Kava Kava, Mandagora etc.

Everywhere from as north as Hebden Bridge to as south as Amsterdam.

11/IF YOU WERE AN ANIMAL WHICH WOULD YOU BE?

A cat as it's an easy life & I could shit in hard to get at but easy to smell places.

12/DO YOU BELIEVE IN/HAVE HAD ANY EXPERIENCES WITH GHOSTS, VAMPIRES, WEREWOLVES, IMMORTAL BEINGS & THE LIKE?

As a child I had seen & experienced apparitions, but whether these were down to an over active brain, a future flash-back after all the acid consumed in the early 80's or from watching too much of Tom's Midnight Garden I do not know!

13/DO YOU BELIEVE IN REINCARNATION?

Could there actually be another me? Does a consciousness continue existing after death & take on a fresh brain just conceived & start all over again? I'll tell you when we meet on the other side.

14/ANY SPECIAL MESSAGES/ISSUES NOT COVERED BY THE ABOVE?

We are quite a lazy band, we did loads of gigs at the start but hardly play live anymore (we did 6 gigs last year), but we will play if we're asked nicely, so drop us a line to say you've got an excellent venue that wants to put on a thoroughly memorable show.

A Day Around Rhodes

 

We set off 10,000 Drax lighter, having hired a little Fiat Panda for the day. With Anna navigating and Marni in the back in a makeshift carseat, we eased out onto the coastal ring road. For the most part it runs smooth and immaculate, ruler-straight along the shoreline, with the Aegean glittering on one side and the scorched hills of Rhodes rising on the other.

Our first real stop was Monolithos Castle, about 70km southwest of Rhodes Town. Perched dramatically on a rock above the sea, its ruined walls and chapels seem to cling to the cliffs, offering staggering views across to Halki and the scatter of islands beyond. From there we wound down the Z-bends — a curling, hairpin descent — until we reached a small, secluded beach directly opposite the little island of Stregilo. The sea was still, clear as glass, and we let Marni stretch her legs on the pebbles before heading on.

Back up into the hills we drove, reaching Siana, a small mountain village famous for its honey and souma (a fiery local spirit). Lunch there, however, left a bitter taste — the bill padded and the service perfunctory. From my previous Greek experiences, having lived here, it's evident that greed was beginning to backfire on the tourist trade in Greece, with overpricing leaving package holidays unsold. Sitting in Siana, it felt uncomfortably true.

From Siana we cut inland, chasing petrol. The little Panda was running low by the time we found a pump in Apolona, another hill village some 40 km inland. Refuelled, we considered pressing on to Platania, but the road ahead was little more than rubble and dust. After a cautious look at the cliff edge, we swung a U-turn, retraced our way back, and cut across the spine of the island towards Salakos.

That brought us eventually to the Valley of the Butterflies — Petaloudes. It’s a shady, green gorge about 25 km southwest of Rhodes Town, famous for the clouds of Jersey Tiger moths that gather in their thousands each summer. We parked and walked the two-mile path: bridges, wooden walkways, and endless stone steps climbing beside streams and waterfalls. Butterflies clung to tree trunks in thick clusters, flashing orange and black wings when disturbed. The climb was punishing in the August heat, made more trying by the pushy crowds (the Italian tourists in particular treating the place like a theme park), but it was worth the effort for the quiet glades at the top.

By the time we emerged, it was late afternoon, and we decided to take the long loop back around the north of the island — partly by accident, since we’d left the map in the hotel. The detour stretched the journey, but with the windows down and the coastline unspooling beside us, it was hard to complain.

Evening fell as we finally rolled into Lardos, a lively little village about 55 km south of Rhodes Town. We stopped for tea, glad to rest. But Rhodes had one more twist in store: after finishing up and setting off again, we took a wrong turn, drove for twenty minutes through the dark countryside, and somehow — impossibly — found ourselves right back in Lardos, or Lard Arse as we called it.

The (Non) Events Arena Festival, Rhyl

What a total farce. I should’ve known from the start, really. When the production manager, told me there’d be “10 to 15,000 people” there, I took him at his word. What I didn’t realise was that he actually meant ten. Not ten thousand — just ten. That’s about how it felt when we rolled up to the so-called “festival.”

The gig was supposed to be a charity event, raising money for Shelter. A good cause, which is why we’d agreed to do it. But the pair of tossers organising it insisted on handling the advertising themselves, instead of leaving it to someone who knew what they were doing. The result? The only poster I ever saw was a scrappy A4 sheet taped up in a Chinese chippy. It looked more like a college enrolment form than a festival flyer, and our name was buried at the bottom like an afterthought. That was their masterstroke in marketing.

When the Sons Of Selina turned up at 7pm — two hours before we were due on — the site was dead. No bands playing, maybe a hundred people milling about looking lost. Just as a few coachloads of people began arriving, the council showed up, locked themselves in the control room and pulled the plug. Their excuse? “The decibel levels are too high, residents are complaining.” This from the same bunch now under investigation for £7 million worth of fraud.

To make matters worse, the whole arena had been designed back-to-front in the first place. The stage faced the town instead of the sea, so any noise went straight into people’s living rooms. Years of local taxes wasted, and for what? An arena that now only gets used once a year, for the bloody Radio One Roadshow.

I actually tried to reason with Councillor David Davies. Asked him what he thought his actions meant for the bands, or for the people who’d travelled miles to see us and Primitive Faith. His reply was smug, priggish, almost gleeful. His colleagues sat there sneering, gloating in self-satisfaction. I felt violence bubbling under my skin, but I held back. Better to let it fester and save it for the music. Besides, I knew the fraud scandal would catch up with them eventually. Big boys in prison, with fallen men for company — I almost look forward to it.

We never played. Primitive Faith never played. Nobody did. What could’ve been a decent night for a good cause was smothered by a mix of incompetence, arrogance, and amateurism.

In my frustration I wrote to the papers. I called out the council for their hypocrisy and the organisers for their half-baked advertising. I even urged anyone left out of pocket to claim back their expenses — and, if by some miracle they ever saw a penny, to donate it to Shelter anyway, since that’s what the whole thing was meant to be about. I ended the letter with one final lesson: never use council property, and never trust anyone whose posters look like car boot sale adverts.

That’s what we were left with. No gig, no sound, no stage. Just another farce in Rhyl — the kind of small-town mess you couldn’t make up if you tried.

Sons Of Selina - The Bistro, Rhyl

 

It only took four years, three singles, one album, and a Radio One session before Sons of Selina finally played our first hometown gig. People always asked: why not sooner? The truth is I never wanted to get caught up in the local band mentality that swirls around Rhyl like bad weather. Every town has it — the rivalries, the gossip, the back-slapping with knives hidden behind backs — but when it’s your own patch it feels toxic. We kept our distance. We avoided the sycophantic local press. We didn’t want to be part of that small-town scene. The only local band I’d seen and genuinely enjoyed recently were The Fluff.

Still, sooner or later you’ve got to face your own doorstep.

A few days before the gig I’d floated the idea of projecting a video I’d put together with Dave the Rave (ex-PSST) over the stage while we played. On a Delerium Records budget it was wishful thinking. Luckily, Bonehead came up with a cheaper, brilliantly daft alternative: six TV sets wired up behind the stage, all running the same footage. With Roger Bickley’s (ex-ZODIAQUE UK) handy wiring skills and a £37 booster amp, it worked. A DIY multimedia extravaganza.

Steve Jones (of White Tygerz, Heroes on a Beach, Picture House, and nearly SOS himself at one point) handled the PA. We’d finished soundcheck by 9pm, but weren’t due on for another two and a half hours. That gap worried me. Robin was on his second pint, and I couldn’t shake the memory of the infamous PSST incident that ended in him facing seven charges. So I did the only sensible thing: I marched the lot of them back to mine to kill time.

When we returned to The Bistro the place was heaving — over 250 people, jammed into every corner. At £2 a head, that’s about £500 through the door, with £170 making its way into our pockets and the rest lining the Trehearns’ tills. Whatever my misgivings about playing Rhyl, that sight of the room buzzing with our people, our town, was special.

The set blurred past in a rush of noise, screens flickering behind us, all of us throwing ourselves into it. This was the Sons of Selina line-up in full: me on vocals, Robin, Martin and Bonehead wielding three guitars between them, Ken Maynardis on bass, Steve on keyboards, and Cumi on drums. It felt like a proper homecoming, even if it had taken us years to get there.

The next morning there was no time to bask in it. Delerium hauled us out of bed for a photo shoot, and those bleary-eyed pictures are now plastered all Kerrang!. Around the same time, the NME ran an ad for us in their small-ads section:

SONS OF SELINA: AVAILABLE FOR WEDDINGS, FUNERALS & CHILDREN’S PARTIES (WE NEITHER).

It still makes me laugh.

Sons Of Selina - The Archway Tavern, Islington

 

It was one of those nights that made me wonder what the fuck we were doing. Just a few weeks earlier we’d blasted through a live Radio One session, going out to millions. Now here we were, Sons of Selina, driving five hours down the M6 / M1 in a battered rental van that had cost us £127 in hire, deposit and diesel, only to end up playing to about 30 punters in a pub in Islington.

On the way home Martin missed the M6 turn-off and said, deadpan: “The other bands didn’t want to know us and we didn’t want to know them.” He was right. From the moment we walked into the Archway Tavern it felt like we’d wandered into someone else’s party uninvited. The other bands kept themselves to themselves, and so did we.

The set-up was odd. The pub had two bars, and while we were playing most of the regulars stayed in the other one, uninterested. We were hammering out our noise to a thin line of faces who didn’t quite know what to make of us. But gradually — maybe halfway through the set — a few heads started turning. By the end, people drifted in from the other bar, craning to see what the racket was, realising something was happening. We might have only had thirty new friends by the time we packed up, but they were our thirty.

As for the other bands — Mantaray weren’t bad, very Jam-influenced at the time, though I’ve since heard they morphed into an Oasis-type affair. Spitbaby, on the other hand, were unlistenable, so we sat in the bar while they did their thing and counted that as a tactical retreat.

The Sons’ line-up was in flux then: me on vocals, Robin and Martin on guitars, Bonehead on a third guitar, Ken Maynardis on bass, Cumi on drums, and Steve on keyboards, who gave the whole thing its oddball edge. We were a strange beast, half-punk, half-psychedelic, with too many guitars and too much beer, but we made it work.

On the long drive back north, slumped in the van, I asked myself out loud: “Was it really worth it? Worth the money, the miles, the effort to play to 30 people?” And then I answered myself: yeah. Because those 30 people got something real, and for an hour we made London ours. Besides, we even got paid £20 for it — so I guess we’re big-time now.

Live at the BBC: Sons of Selina Take on Studio 3

 

Martin, Steve Bonehead, Robin, Cumi, Ste Sync, myself and Ken

After weeks of waiting, the day had finally arrived. At 2pm, Steve Bonehead picked me up, and so began the chaotic dance of assembling people, instruments, and nerves for the 1 hour 15 minute drive to Manchester. Our destination loomed in the skyline — the unmistakable BBC building on Oxford Road, casting its shadow over us like a headmaster waiting to judge a late homework assignment.

We checked in, got our ID passes, and before heading into battle, made a quick dash across the road to Amigo’s, the overpriced Mexican place, for some food. I thought I was feeling the nerves — until I clocked Martin, who looked like he was ready to dissolve into his fajitas. True to form, ten minutes before we were due to go live, Martin quietly disappeared to the toilet, following Steve, who’d already made his own nervous pilgrimage just five minutes earlier.

Inside the BBC, I was pleased to see that the Sons of Selina sticker I’d slapped in the studio loos on a previous visit (back in September) was still stuck fast. It had since been joined by a proud colony of new ones — quiet, sticky proof of our ongoing guerilla marketing campaign.

We were ushered into Studio 3, also known as the Drama Studio, where we began the ritual of set-up with our sound engineers, Tony and Dave. Over the next hour and a half, mics were tested, cables untangled, and the three guitarists did their best to channel the spirit (and noise level) of Jimi Hendrix’s ghost. Eventually, we pulled it together and ran through the four tracks we’d be playing live on air that night.

Tony - the engineer

10:20pm — go time. You could practically hear seven sphincters tighten in unison as the red light went on. I had a quick on-air chat with Mark Radcliffe about Welsh football (as you do), took a cheeky dig at Delerium for being "chickenshits" about not releasing our first live track, and then — boom — we launched into Climb. Fueled by adrenaline, it was blisteringly fast — probably twice the speed it was supposed to be — but it was the best version we’d ever played. Every note was dead on. Honestly, that rush should be bottled and sold to junkies. We were flying.

About 45 minutes later, Radcliffe introduced Of The First Water, with Bonehead opening on the mellow guitar line. Again — perfect. After that came a longer interview segment, full of piss-taking and ridiculous banter. I even got Radcliffe squirming for cueing up Gamoto Manopano wrong the night before. Steve Sync and Lard then treated the nation to a bizarre monosynth duet, before we ripped into "For Want of a Better Name", which Radcliffe proudly called “blistering.”

Just before our final song, we heard that listeners were phoning in, trying to work out what “Sons of Selina” is an anagram of — no one got it (and no, I’m still not telling). Then came Terminus, just after 11:35pm. Midway through, Martin hit the wrong chord. It threw me, briefly — I was singing the line "Soon all the day of the imperial haze will be lost in the dark of the past" while inside my head was spiraling: Have we blown it? Was this the moment it all unravelled? But I pulled it together — told myself to snap out of it — and we powered through to the end.

After we’d gone off air, Rachel Elmet walked in and said, “That was brilliant. Did you say fucked?” Cue a room full of raised eyebrows. Apparently, the producer had rung down from upstairs, convinced someone had sworn live on Radio One. The engineers were all exchanging looks too. Turns out, they misheard the line “It’s a sad fact…” in "Terminus". I had to do some serious convincing that I hadn’t just dropped an F-bomb on national radio. For the record: I said fact, not facked. Only cockneys say that!

All in all, an incredible night. Pure energy. Live music how it’s meant to be — full of mistakes, adrenaline, banter, and magic.

The Reign of Janet & Dave

Every workplace has its villain. Ours was Janet.

Janet wasn’t just unpopular; she was a full-time dispenser of misery. She strutted around with this pig-headed arrogance, convinced she was management material when in reality she was just management’s headache. If something went wrong — and it usually did — it was never her fault. She’d just turn on the waterworks, mutter something about “pressure,” and somehow make herself the victim. Classic Janet.

Then came the masterstroke: she got her husband, Dave, a job with us.

Now, Dave was a wagon driver — but not just any wagon driver. He was a connoisseur of lay-bys. To him, the open road wasn’t about destinations or deadlines. No, it was about spotting that perfect patch of tarmac where he could pull over, recline the seat, and lose three hours in blissful slumber. If you were looking for Dave, you wouldn’t find him at the depot, you wouldn’t find him on schedule — you’d find him halfway up the A55, parked in a lay-by, surrounded by crisp packets and the faint hum of Radio 2.

Janet and Dave together were a double-act of dysfunction. She’d storm about the office, belittling anyone within range, while he perfected the art of doing bugger-all in scenic roadside locations. Bonnie and Clyde, if Bonnie wore cheap perfume and Clyde was welded to a cab seat.

The rest of us could only watch in disbelief. She thrived on creating chaos, he thrived on avoiding work, and somehow the pair of them managed to make life harder for everyone else. She’d stir things up inside the building, he’d grind operations to a halt outside it. A real tag team of torment.

Still, in a way, they were unforgettable. If you’ve ever seen a wagon parked smugly in a lay-by for the fifth time that week, you’ve seen Dave’s true genius. And if you’ve ever had your day ruined by someone pretending to be your superior while actually knowing less than you do, you’ve met your own Janet.

We carried on, grumbling, laughing bitterly, and praying for retirement. Because, in the end, the one thing Janet and Dave gave us — apart from ulcers — was a shared enemy. And in an office like ours, that was almost worth it.

Ludicrous Lollipops come to Rhyl

Spent the day prepping video stuff shooting footage around town then got ready to play at Rhyl with the Ludicrous Lollipops and the Psycho Sexual Sex Terrestrials. About 130 people showed up, which was pretty decent. Gotta say, this was our best performance so far—got a brilliant response from the crowd. Wayne was filming the whole thing, so hopefully we’ve got some good footage.

Our set went down well: LIAR, BEIRUT IN RHYL, JOHNNY BARNES, PERSONAL WARS, KENNEDY, POWERFUL PETE, £2.17, LIFE GOES ON, STUART, FATAL ATTRACTION, then finished with KENNEDY again. Felt tight and energetic, the kind of night where everything just clicks.

The Ludicrous Lollipops were great too. For anyone who doesn’t know, they’re a Nottingham band — tight, melodic indie stuff with a solid fanbase. Their set was really well done and well supported by the crowd. Only hiccup was when Paul’s “lady of the moment” got on stage and shouted that the Lollipops were shit, telling them to get off so PSST could play. The vocalist handled it brilliantly though — he told everyone, “This is my mum, she always does this. Fuck off mum.” The crowd loved that.

Later on, Paul gave Chunky a hard time for buying a Lollipops T-shirt, insults were traded including “Scouse cunt” and “roll on the 3rd Reich”. Just shows how petty band politics can get, and Chunky's not even in the band!

After the gig, I headed up to the Bistro for some beers to get away from all the drama. Nice to chill and enjoy the buzz from a great night of music.

Full PSST set here

Psycho Sexual Sex Terrestrials live at Rhyl Bus Station (Outdoor)

Woke to the sound of rain hammering the window and figured there was no way Paul and the rest would go through with an outdoor gig in this weather. But sure enough, by 2pm the Psycho boys were set up opposite Rhyl bus station—my 75th performance—standing in the cold February drizzle with the wind cutting through us.

We were basically outside The Mermaid pub, plugged into the mains courtesy of their socket, and facing the bus station proper. Buses trundled in and out, passengers gawping through steamed-up windows at the sight of a band belting out three-chord rubbish to a crowd of about 50 hardy souls. Rain or not, it was great fun—exactly the kind of daft, one-off spectacle you don’t see every day… or any day, come to that.

Aubyn couldn’t make it, so we ploughed through the set: Liar / Happy as Larry / Beirut in Rhyl / Kennedy / Powerful Pete / £2.17 / Fatal Attraction / Man’s Best Enemy, then, because why not, ran most of them again—Liar / Happy as Larry / Beirut in Rhyl / Kennedy / Powerful Pete.

Among the sodden but smiling faces were Anna, Wayne, Robin, Adam, and Cumi’s Jane, plus forty-odd curious locals who stuck around instead of catching the next bus. The sound was surprisingly good considering the conditions, and by the end everyone seemed impressed—perhaps by our music, perhaps by our sheer lunacy.

To top it off, Bob Kelly offered to cover £125 of our £250 bill for a 24-track studio session, which he’s booking for the end of March. Not bad for an afternoon spent getting soaked and entertaining Rhyl’s public transport clientele.

Psycho Sexual Sex Terrestrials / Jon Bon 10p at Wrexham Cartrefle College

Between three battered cars, every scrap of PSST gear was wedged in with human cargo, and the convoy rolled east to Wrexham. Along for the ride were Chunky, Rob Snapshot, and Scott (who was way OTT tonight). Back at the House of Crud, Wayne and Robin stayed behind painting until Anna and Sian swung by to collect them at 8pm.

Soundcheck was the usual scramble of wires, amps, and expletives. Iwan from the Student Union had us written-off before a note was played—handing over our massive £15 “expenses” as if to say, that’s all you’re worth, lads. The place was dead (well, it was a Sunday night), so Dean, Tommy, and the roadies went prowling the campus like door-to-door lunatics, dragging in anyone who’d listen. Somehow, they swelled the numbers to about forty.

Time to thaw the room. Cue Jon Bon 10p—me and Robin’s comedy double act, which exists purely to take the piss. A million miles from our more serious psyche-punk project Sons of Selina, we launched into a shambolic Floral Dance / Imagine / Last Dance medley, ad-libbing through the parts we’d forgotten and cracking ourselves up in the process.

PSST’s actual set got off to a wobbly start—not musically, but in spirit. The first three songs landed flat with the crowd, our stage energy about as electric as a wet towel. Then Robin and Chunky whipped out their big ‘CLAP’ and ‘LAUGH’ signs, Dean and I started bouncing off each other with quick-fire quips, and the room loosened. Suddenly it was a gig:

Liar / Happy as Larry / Beirut in Rhyl / Man’s Best Enemy / Kennedy / Powerful Pete / £2.17 / Life Goes On / Fatal Attraction / Kennedy (yes, twice).

By the end, they wanted more—so much so that we got invited back for rag week in a fortnight. Not bad for a night that started like a wake.

Not everything was smooth sailing. I lost my rag at Dean for taking the piss out of a Rasta by calling him “Bob.” He got defensive, I got angrier, and that was that—point made.

Anna drove Sian, Wayne, Robin, and me home. I flogged 15 copies of Crud #7 along the way—proving once again that a gig’s worth isn’t just measured in applause, but in how many fanzines you can shift before the amps are back in the van well, cars.

Sons of Selina – Mixing “Anxiety” in the Summerhouse

 

Six hours straight in Robin’s summerhouse-studio in Colwyn Bay, and we emerged battered, knackered but victorious. The “studio” was really the converted summerhouse at the back of his parents’ garden — a space barely big enough for a desk, a bed, a rack of gear, and the tangle of leads that seemed to grow overnight. Robin also lived there, so the smell of instant coffee, cigarettes and stale chip-shop wrappers hung in the air alongside the hum of synths.

We were mixing Anxiety for our burgeoning Sons Of Selina project, and it was heavy going on a Tascam 4-track. The recording was a dense sonic jigsaw that needed constant 'bouncing down' to make space to record more: two rhythm guitars, a slide guitar, bass, sequenced drums, organ, a string pad, mono synth solo, and enough vocal trickery to keep any engineer sweating. Delay on every vocal line’s end, reverse cymbals with a seven-second delay opening the song, reverse reverb on the first three cymbal crashes (with a sneaky extra delay on the third), dry vocals for verse three, a subtle guitar delay on the final note, chorus on the solo backing vocals, double vocals to close verse three, triple vocals for the final chorus run, and a few extra cymbals hammering the first four beats for good measure.

The summerhouse would shake each time we pushed the faders. Robin hunched over the desk in his wool jumper, cigarette dangling, muttering about “getting the stereo image just right.” I perched by the tiny heater, notebook in hand, making sure each mad production decision was locked in before fatigue wiped our memories.

By the time we bounced the final mix, it felt like we’d built a small sonic cathedral in that cramped garden room. Outside, the January cold bit hard — inside, the air was thick, warm, and buzzing with the hum of cables and the satisfaction of a job well done.

(In other news, the Rhyl Journal had a PSST photo running that week, advertising for a new drummer — Jon had buggered off to Canada with my ex-girlfriend. I guess bands, like songs, are always in a state of remix and mixing girlfriends eh!.)

Psycho Sexual Sex Terrestrials – Live at Mold Sureways

 

My 72nd gig

After nearly eighteen months away from a full live set, stepping back onto the stage at Mold Sureways felt both alien and familiar. The Psycho Sexual Sex Terrestrials were never about complexity—three or four chords, often in the same order—but about attitude, noise, and the peculiar thrill of being in a band. The setlist was a blast through the core of PSST’s repertoire: Liar, Beirut in Rhyl, Life Goes On, Kennedy, Fatal Attraction, £2.17, Death on the Motorway, Scared, the instrumental Happy as Larry (with Paul on bass), and Melanie-Jane.

Off-stage, the mood was less harmonious—Jon’s prattish antics during soundcheck and Paul’s subsequent sulking stirred memories of difficult 4Q gigs. Yet when the lights dimmed and the first chords rang out, the frustrations fell away. The room, crammed with what felt like hundred bodies, vibrated with the raw energy of a band leaning into its own ragged edges. It wasn’t perfect, it was a bit shit, but was good fun (I think)

PSST gig and arrests are made

 

I had just come back from three months working in Greece. No sooner had my feet touched Rhyl soil than I found myself back in the chaos — onstage with Psycho Sexual Sex Terrestrials at the Bistro.

The band were already in bits before I even walked in. Robin was pissed, Paul was pissed, Jon and Scott were pissed. Dean, ex–Dam Yankee, was holding it together on rhythm guitar, while Hot Scott was doubling up on bass. I clambered up and joined them for Kennedy and Distance, hammering the bass and generally wrecking the place. The set was a shambles — Robin broke two strings and just carried on regardless, Dean stopped mid-song to bollock Scott for fucking up, and I threw myself into what a reviewer described as a typical demonic Crud performance.

But the gig was a blast. A sweaty, chaotic mess of music, broken strings, shouting, and laughter. It was also the last time the Bistro allowed live music for quite some time. We burned it down in spirit, if not in flames.

The after-show was pure carnage. Paul was trying to juggle not one but two girlfriends — both sat at the same table, glaring daggers, while one of them, soon to be his wife and mother of his child, tried not to combust. The whole band was spiralling into chaos, fuelled by drink and bravado.

Leaving the gig, things got darker. Dean was assaulted outside, which sent Paul, Robin, and Jon — who doubled as a Special Constable — into vigilante mode. Dean spotted one of the culprits, so Jon screeched his car to a halt, leaving the engine running and doors wide open, Robin drunk in the back seat. Dean, Paul, and Jon bolted after the lad, Jon arresting him in full Special Constable glory.

But when they returned to the car, it was gone. Vanished. Robin, in his drunken wisdom, had decided to “help” by moving it out of the road to avoid an accident. Unfortunately, he moved it straight into the path of a police car.

The cops saw he was pissed and hauled him out. Robin, furious at not being recognised as the upstanding citizen he believed he was, kicked off. He lashed out at the officers, smashed the windows of their van, and earned himself seven charges: assault, destruction of police property, drunk driving, no insurance — the full house.

The entire band somehow ended up in the police station, joined by one of Paul’s girlfriends who had just discovered the other one existed. She was screaming, “I hope you catch fucking AIDS!” at the top of her lungs while Robin raged in his cell. The police even tried to confiscate the video of the gig to use as evidence. They didn’t get it.

By some miracle — maybe because Jon was a Special Constable, maybe because Robin had some kind of luck lodged in his bones — he walked away lighter than he should have.

It was a hell of a welcome home for me. Three months in Greece, then straight back to Rhyl, straight into the heart of the storm.

Day 78: Frankfurt to Paris - Training Thoughts

 

Train journeys are strange social experiments — quiet, confined hours spent in close proximity to total strangers, where everyone pretends not to be watching everyone else.

But of course, everyone is watching.

It’s the ritual of the observer: staring discreetly at the person opposite, then darting your eyes away the moment they make contact. It’s a subtle dance — as much a part of train travel as the ticket punch or the low rumble of the wheels.

Say what you will about the continent, but at least European trains run on time. They're clean, punctual, and notably free of graffiti like “MUFC 4EVA” or “Shaz 4 Darren” scratched into the toilet mirror. The air doesn’t reek of stale lager, and there's no sticky floor beneath your boots.

And the fares? Mercifully cheaper than back home.

Leaving Frankfurt, I settled in for the long haul to Paris — a journey made bearable by what I like to think of as seat-side theatre. You don’t need a book when the carriage offers an entire cast of characters.

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The People-Watching Game

Across from me sat a middle-aged German woman, travelling with a small group who spoke in that soft-yet-stern tone peculiar to those born under heavy Teutonic skies. What fascinated me wasn’t what she said — I understood almost none of it — but her face.

Her neck was so broad that it was difficult to tell where her chin stopped and her face began. Even more captivating: at some point in her life, she had taken the time to painstakingly pluck every individual eyebrow hair… and then drawn them back on with all the elegance of a geometry set. Thin, arched, deliberate — like twin commas hovering above blank expression.

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🎒 Enter the English

Around 25 people boarded with me in Frankfurt — all of them in hiking boots and ridiculous matching yellow hats, the kind children wear on school trips to make them easier to count.

They shuffled along the corridor, chirping their beige little sentences at each other.

“What time does the train leave, Roger?”

“Isn’t this a beautiful station?”

Ah yes, I thought — only the English could look that daft abroad. And sure enough, I picked up the accent as they passed.

Still, they were right about the station. Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof is nothing if not beautiful — all steel, glass, and sweeping arches. A far cry from the grime of Rhyl or the existential despair of Crewe.

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Roland’s Germany

Earlier in the day, Roland (my German acquaintance with something of a vendetta against his homeland) had said to me with venom:

“Welcome to Germany. Look at all the nice people in their nice cars. Look how everything has to be in order. Not a thing out of place.”

To him, Germany’s obsession with order was suffocating.

To me, coming from the grey sludge of British public spaces — broken ticket machines, gum-stained pavements, bins overflowing with chip wrappers — it was reassuring.

You begin to notice just how filthy some parts of Britain are only after you leave them.

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🎫 The Journey

There’s something therapeutic about a long train ride across Europe. The world rolls past your window like a slow film. Forests become suburbs, suburbs fade into farmland. People board. People leave.

And all the while, you're sitting there — between languages, between countries, between lives — pretending not to stare at the woman with the marker-pen eyebrows while quietly judging people in yellow hats.

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Next stop: Paris.

Let’s hope the eyebrows stay behind in Germany.

Day 77: Ancona - Innsbruck - Bad Kissengen

 

After crawling through customs at the port of Ancona, I found myself once again at a crossroads — quite literally. With no onward ticket, no plan other than to head to Paris, and no real idea which direction to walk, my first task was to find north. The hope, as always, was to hitch a lift. I gave it a long hour by the roadside, standing in the Italian dust watching indifferent Fiats and overloaded lorries fly past. Just as I was ready to admit defeat and trudge back to the station in search of a train, fate intervened.

A VW campervan pulled up beside me. Inside were Roland and his girlfriend, Jutla — total strangers — who saw me stranded and took pity. Not just a short ride up the road, but all the way to Bad Kissengen in North Bavaria.

I climbed in, grateful and slightly dazed, and off we went — up the spine of Italy, across the Alps, and into Germany.

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☁️ The Road North: Ravioli, Radios and the Return of Cold Air

We lunched on ravioli, shared stories, and cruised to a soundtrack of decent music. As the day wore on, we approached the Italian–Austrian border, stopping briefly to change money — where, for the first time in nearly three months, I felt the cold.

After a Greek summer of sweat, sun, and dust, that crisp alpine air was almost a shock. We passed through Brenner Pass, the mountains folding up around us, and caught sight of the massive Europabrücke (Europe Bridge) just before Innsbruck — an epic, sky-slicing piece of engineering, stretched above valleys and treetops. Roland pointed out a castle nestled at the foot of the mountains: once the only access through the Alps during winter, before motorways and flyovers came along.

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🍺 A Bavarian Detour and a Pub Full of Cowboys

By 9 pm we reached a junction, and Roland turned to me and asked, “Left or right?” I shrugged and said left, and off we went — a spontaneous detour to Nusdorf, deep in southern Bavaria.

We parked up and headed into a local pub. It was packed with loud, beer-throated Bavarians — and when we walked in, it was like a Western: everyone stopped talking and stared at us. Roland leaned over and muttered, "That’s just how Bavarians are..."

The place was brilliant. Proper food, deep wooden booths, and best of all — real beer. Not the bottled Amstel I’d been drinking in Kythera for the past three months, but deep, earthy Bavarian lager. The kind that tastes like someone actually cares about it.

“More beer?” Roland asked after our first pint, and it didn’t take much convincing. Four pints later, I fell asleep in the back of the van, full, warm, and happily worn out.

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🌧️ Nuremberg, Rain & a Midnight Rescue

We made a brief stop in Nuremberg, then continued north as night fell and the rain came down. Sometime in the early hours, Roland and Jutla gently woke me. We’d reached Bad Kissingen, a spa town in northern Bavaria. They didn’t want to leave me on the side of a motorway in the cold and dark, so they put me up at their flat, insisting I sleep properly.

We arrived at 4:30 in the morning, the kind of hour where streets are empty and the world feels paused. I crawled onto their comfy couch, grateful beyond words.

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🧭 From Coastline to Castles

In a single day and night, I’d gone from Mediterranean coastline to alpine valleys, from staring hopelessly at a road in Ancona to sipping Bavarian beer in a pub where the walls practically smelled of history.

It’s the kind of journey you can’t plan — the kind that only happens when you’re travelling light, saying yes, and following strangers into the next story.

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📍 Route:

Italy: Ancona → Bologna → Brenner Pass

Austria: Innsbruck

Germany: Nusdorf → Nuremberg → Bad Kissingen

Day 74: Leaving Kythera

 

The wind howled across Kythera this morning, the kind of gale that shakes shutters and whips the sea into a frenzy. For a while I thought it was fate’s way of keeping me anchored to the island, perhaps for another week. The ferries rarely challenge such weather, and with the island battered from all sides it felt like the Aegean itself wanted me to stay.

I hitched first to Potamos and then on to Agia Pelagia, expecting to find the port in lockdown, no boats daring to brave the waves. But at the Martha booking office the young woman behind the desk reassured me with a smile—it wouldn’t be Pelagia today but the more sheltered harbour at Kapsali. A ferry would leave at 5:30 p.m. Hope restored, I had a few hours to gather my scattered belongings and say my farewells.

Up at the Vouno I collected my pack, said goodbye to Cheryl, and left a note for Wayne before taking the winding road back down to Pelagia. I lingered there over lunch with an Australian teacher, though her conversation never strayed far from smoking joints and late nights. The sort of girl, I thought, you’d fall into bed with at a party and slip away from before morning.

The road carried me onward. Two Aussies gave me a lift as far as Aroniadika, then a Greek driver took me further—his car enlivened by an unlikely passenger: a London rasta with a Jamaican lilt and his Oxford-based girlfriend. Strange combinations, chance encounters; it seemed fitting as my Kytherian chapter closed.

At 6:15 p.m. the ferry pulled away from Kapsali. I stood on deck as the whitewashed villages and craggy hills slipped into the distance, swallowed by the dusk. Did I regret leaving? I wasn’t sure. Three months of steady work, food, and a bed had given me comfort and routine—but comfort can quickly turn to confinement. Out there lay uncertainty, hunger, nights without shelter… and freedom.

By the time we docked at Neapoli I had company again: the rasta, whom I dubbed “Peter Tosh,” and Marie, his girlfriend. They’d just been searched by the police and assumed it was racial harassment. But minutes later I was pulled aside too—their real quarry, it seemed, was a German causing trouble somewhere in town.

The night ended not with triumph but with fatigue. Hitching toward Sparti was hopeless; no cars stopped. I bought some bread and cheese and made do with a corner of an unfinished hotel as my bed. The stone was cold, the air damp, but I had crossed the water.

800 drachmas lighter, but one island heavier in memories, I had left Kythera.