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.

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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.

Pocket Venus Breedingly drunk

Whisky, bikini girls, and the strangest bar in Rhyl combined forces to produce what was allegedly a night out at the twice-monthly Breeding Ground shindig.

The “pre-drinks” whisky did its job admirably, numbing me just enough to survive The Lorne and The Swan. By the time we actually reached the Breeding Ground, I was already halfway to being gently embalmed. This may explain why I’m fairly sure I saw girls in bikinis parading around with machine guns. Either that, or the whisky had finally started writing its own diary entries.

The first two bands kindly sobered me up by being aggressively bland. Hooper and the other lot (who apparently robbed a crime scene for their white suits) might benefit from an intensive drinking workshop with Chris Yates. With luck, they’d pick up a few tips on passion, energy, or at the very least how to look like they care.

The aforementioned Mr Yates and his band Pocket Venus, as tradition demands, screamed their way through a set that absolutely should have stirred the crowd but mostly didn’t — until the grand finale, when a drunk man leapt on stage to play air guitar with an actual guitar. Yates was heard shouting, “Good to see someone’s making a fucking effort,” which honestly doubled as the night’s official review. If you see this band in future, do try to make a fucking effort — they’re worth 45 minutes of your increasingly limited time on Earth.

We wrapped up in a subterranean bar next to the venue — a deeply questionable establishment run by a deeply drunk barman called Huey. By this point I was also doing an excellent impression of a drunk person. Then again, so was absolutely everyone else.

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.

The Breeding Ground

The Breeding Ground. Go on, say it again slowly. The Breeding Ground. A name that suggests either an arts venue or a documentary about bacteria.

Rhyl having an “alternative venue” isn’t exactly a revolutionary concept. We’ve had the Anti-Disco, The Gallery, Trotters, Def Con 1, The Stand… a proud lineage of brave little ideas repeatedly marching into the same brick wall. That wall is a double-edged sword. One edge is blunt and labelled Apathy. Everyone moans endlessly about the lack of alternatives to nightclub culture, yet when something actually appears, they vanish like vampires at sunrise. The other edge is equally blunt and largely made of… well, shit. Rhyl has always had a handful of people who insist on fouling the soup and then loudly complaining when it tastes funny. Thankfully, they remain a minority, albeit a noisy one.

In North Wales, everyone either plays in a band or has at least stood next to someone who once owned a guitar. Of those bands, about 10% are genuinely special, 60% are very good, and the rest are… on a journey. That’s not an insult — just a public service announcement.

Babakin sit comfortably in the “very good” category. Quick to turn the Foot & Mouth crisis into stage décor, they arrived in white culling suits with a big prohibition sign — just one inflatable sheep short of a full agricultural tragedy. I first saw them six years ago supporting Sons of Selina on a farm near Abergele, which in hindsight feels like method acting. They remain a power-pop band with a relaxed confidence and a bassist worth the entrance fee alone. Rhyl might be a lively sea of music, but Colwyn Bay has long resembled a stagnant pond dominated by heavy rock covers. Perhaps Babakin and Wild Mornings might finally give it a stir.

People join bands for many reasons. Yes, we all dream of adoring fans and leaving £1000 tips in restaurants, but most of us accept we’re far more likely to leave exact change at the bar. So it becomes about entertainment — for the audience and for the band. When TBG rejects a band for not being good enough, the correct response is not to form on Saturday, record a demo midweek, and expect a headline slot by Friday. Only terrible Welsh-language bands manage that and end up on S4C within a week — and even they get found out eventually. The real route involves graft: schools, pubs, colleges, youth clubs. The clapometer rarely lies.

Speaking of which, Bradford’s Goad would have registered somewhere below zero. Polite Easter applause quickly faded into disinterest. Maybe The Cardinals were right and North Wales is two years behind the times. Or maybe the “new indie” from big cities sounds suspiciously like dodgy Hazel O’Connor B-sides with complicated drum timings. Interest had died almost completely when Goad began their last song — which their singer abruptly stopped mid-verse, confiscated the guitarist’s instrument, and marched off. A bold artistic statement, if the statement was “we’re done here.”

The Bistro, for all its nostalgia and charm, showed what happens when good intentions meet the need to sell drinks: weekly gigs eventually turned an “alternative” venue into a pub-rock conveyor belt. Some brilliant nights happened there, but less really would have been more. Personally, I’d space TBG to every three weeks out of season and keep it fresh. So far, so good — the sell-by date remains comfortably distant, and booking bigger names like Spear of Destiny is a definite feather in the cap. Now the challenge is variety; you can only recycle the same bands so many times before the flavour fades.

So if you’re slagging off TBG right now, congratulations on having a mind both narrow and impressively small. You’re criticising people who are actually trying to create something — entertainment, community, a reason to leave the house. Of course, you could always return to the glory days of the occasional gig upstairs at the New Inn, if that’s more your speed.

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 sabotage the Eisteddfod

[I found this on a message board - I have no recollection of it ever happening - amazing if it did!!]

This week, the Welsh Eisteddfod witnessed perhaps the greatest act of cultural sabotage in its history. The Sons of Selina, nominated for "Best Welsh Language Export" under false pretenses that the band had climbed the Belgian charts, took to the stage not to celebrate, but to provoke.

The performance was a cacophony of noise-rock and thrash metal. Frontman Neil Crud, armed with a paintball gun and a Welsh flag, set the tone with a confrontational opening address before the band launched into a wall of sound. While the Eisteddfod officials expected a polished cultural export, they were instead met with screeching guitars and Crud's guttural, frantic vocals.

The highlight of the "heist"—conceived by the band and supported by a complicit Belgian fanbase—was the sheer visual defiance: Neil stealing a cigar from a front-row VIP and the band literalizing their "attack" by firing paintballs into the audience. As the stage erupted in pyrotechnics and a looped sample of George Bush saying 'New world order' echoed through the hall, it became clear: the Sons of Selina hadn't just played the Eisteddfod; they had broken it.

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 band 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 15 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 oddly 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.