When Vinyl Came to Rhyl: My 3-Second Screen Debut

 

I was chatting with Mike Peters, as I often do, when he casually dropped the sort of line that only Mike can:

“Sara Sugarman’s in town, casting for her new film Vinyl at the Pavilion in Rhyl – think Marni might want a part?”

My daughter Marni, was both star-struck and fearless, she ended up spending a full day on set as one of a group of teenage fans chasing a young band. My niece and nephew, Erin and Rhys, were also in on it, cast as extras in a funeral scene. For a film about music, youth, and reinvention, it felt only right that the family got involved.

Then Mike looked at me and grinned.

“You’ve got to be in it too – just turn up. Tell them I sent you.”

And so I did.

---

Mike also had the idea of a band playing in the Pavilion foyer during auditions and did I have any suggestions: Carpet! I cajoled local grunge legends Carpet into playing. Picture it: a raw, fuzzy wall of filthy guitars bouncing off the glass walls, bemused auditionees queueing for their moment while a live band tore it up just meters away. It was surreal. It was brilliant. It was Keeping it Rhyl.

When I turned up to audition, the room was full of hopefuls. I sat, waited, watched the low budgetness unfold. Then I was called in.

Inside was Sara Sugarman, flanked by two others. She looked up, curious. I explained – probably a bit sheepishly – that I wasn’t here to audition per se, but that Mike had told me to come down, that I was meant to have a cameo.

Sara’s eyes lit up.

“I’ve got just the part for you,” she said.
“Come back next week.”

---

Tuesday, 17 August 2010, I arrived back at the Pavilion with my young son Declan in tow. He was a little shy but well-behaved – a miracle considering how long we waited. They even offered him a part, but he politely declined. We ended up spending hours with a motley crew of film extras: mostly local doormen from Rhyl, including one standout character called Lordy, who kept spirits high with relentless banter and mischief.

Time dragged. We’d been there since 11:30am. By 3pm, we hadn’t filmed a frame. Then something happened that jolted the day alive: Keith Allen walked in.

Yes, that Keith Allen – renegade, rock-and-roll wild card, and bona fide screen legend. Watching him was something else. One minute we were chatting casually about Lily (yes, that Lily Allen) and Twin Town, the next minute Sara called “Rolling!” and he snapped into character like flipping a switch. One second he’s your funny mate from down the pub, the next he’s full-throttle intensity. It was mesmerising.

Oh, and Perry Benson and Phil Daniels were there too – yep, Quadrophenia, EastEnders, Parklife Phil Daniels. Just hanging about like it was the most normal thing in the world.

---

The Big Moment (All 3 Seconds of It)

When I finally got called, I was dressed in a security guard’s outfit and given my cue:
“Manhandle Keith Allen into the dark room and tell him to calm down.”

That was it. My film debut.

Three seconds of camera time.
One slightly forceful shove.
And a line delivered with all the calm authority I could muster while trying not to fanboy all over Keith Allen’s coat.

It might not sound like much, but it was ace. I had a front-row seat into the world and theatre of filmmaking. 

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Vinyl: A Love Letter to Music and Mischief

If you’re not familiar with Vinyl, it’s a comedy inspired by a real-life stunt pulled by Mike Peters and his band The Alarm. In 2004, frustrated by music industry ageism, they released a single 45 RPM under the name of a fake young band—and watched it climb the charts. Vinyl takes that story and runs with it, adding laughs, characters, and charm.

Director, Sara Sugarman was born in Rhyl in October 1962 and began her career as a punk‑rock teenager fronting a band called The Fractures, managed by Mike Peters. Their early connection in Rhyl's music scene later brought her to direct Vinyl and film it in their shared hometown. Sugarman later trained at RADA and appeared in films like Sid & Nancy before transitioning to directing (Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen, Very Annie Mary, and eventually Vinyl).

That day – long, disorganised, hilarious, inspiring – was everything that Vinyl stands for. It was about giving people a shot, about the absurd beauty of performance, about the unfiltered fun of doing something purely for the love of it.

It didn’t matter that my screen time was brief or that Declan didn’t end up in the final cut. The film was OK, no one was gonna get an Oscar, but it had a certain nostalgic charm to it, and of course it was filmed in Rhyl where it all began, the scrappy, butt of many a joke North Wales town that raised so many of us.

The Damned – Brickyard, Carlisle

In the summer of 2010, I made the long trip up from North Wales to Carlisle to catch The Damned at the Brickyard – and it was worth every mile. Thankfully, friends put me up for the night, making it a proper little adventure rather than just a fleeting dash across the country.

That's my big bald bonce at the front!

The venue had a sweaty, close-quarters energy – just right to see a band like The Damned, who thrive off the crowd’s enthusiasm. Captain Sensible was absolutely on form throughout the set, ripping through the classics with that signature mix of buffoonery and charm. Even better, he was mingling with us both before and after the show – no rockstar aloofness here, just a genuine connection with the fans.

The set leaned into their punk roots with big hitters like New Rose, Love Song, and Smash It Up, while also pulling out deeper cuts like A Nation Fit for Heroes. The crowd lapped it up, and so did I – one of those gigs where you come away feeling like you were part of something a bit special, and very intimate.

A proper night to remember – Carlisle may not often be the centre of the punk nostalgia universe, but for one Wednesday night in August 2010, it absolutely was.

Hippy New Year

It's a new dawn, a new day, a new life.. etc etc... I used to like Muse until my 10-year-old son developed a neurosis about them. Such is his condition I have to hide my entire Muse collection for fear of myself going off them... Anyway I digress from the reason I'm writing... A new year.. New hopes, new beginnings and so on...
I spent most of 2009 in a tent, or at least that's how it felt, with the bulk of the summer taken up by Festivals, drinking, travelling, drinking and, well, drinking. This had a detrimental effect not only on my liver, but also on my up-to-date knowledge of Welsh music (as in music from Wales in both languages). So praise the Lord for Adam Walton, and praise him even more for kindly collating his best of 2009 into an all killer no filler 3 hour radio show last week. Listening to it cost me £20 in online purchases, where on hearing certain bands I was instantly compelled to buy their stuff. Most of my Walton listening is done during the week on the BBC iPlayer; it's a case of home from work, Walton on, get the tea on and eat it while he witters away and plays exciting new music. That'll take about 40mins and I'll repeat the feat the next night and so on until I've heard the full 3 hours. On the Sunday evening occasions I do get to listen in live, it's a case of a bottle of red and PC at the ready and I'll update the link2wales website as I hear and learn of new stuff.
Talking of new stuff; this week I have mostly been listening to The Docfeistr compilation album out now on Ankst Music, which is a bizarre concept album about a seaman-monster who terrorises and seduces the population, and although mainly hip-hop orientated, does feature the delights of Tew Shady a Cofi Bach, Mr Huw, MC Mabon, Stilletoes and Yr Ods.
Also knocking on the door of my in-box are the much improved Leucine - who've regrouped, got their songwriting heads together, hit the studio and are about to hit your senses with a new EP. Stand out tracks are The Fuse is Lit (which has been knocking around for a while) and the excellent Hospital Driver Please. Now, I'm no fan of emo and find screamo a bit tiresome (it's my age!), but Leucine manage to find a decent balance in the never-never land between the two genres. Superbly recorded and crafted work that even had Steve Sync nodding in the car the other day! Oh, add Where is The Diamond to that list just for the sheer energy of the song.

It's Only Blog 'n' Roll But I like It

Dockrad Records of Cardiff is having another burst of activity, releasing singles by Sweet Fontaine and Howl Griff this week... Amazingly I got hold of both copies by chance via an old address I lives in 7 years ago.
Dai (he of Dockrad) is never one to act spontaneously, so when I told him over 7 years ago that I've moved house (5 times since then!), he hasn't quite got round to updating his records. By what I thought was strange coincidence; the new Klaus Kinski single also showed up at that address, sent to me by Ankst Music. I emailed Emyr Ankst and he told me he got the address off, yes, you've guessed it; Dai Dockrad.
I digress... Sweet Fontaine's single Evermore is a punchy two minute 30 secs of US punk inspired TJs Newport stuff that wouldn't sound out of place on that label from South Wales that I can't for the life of me remember was called, but it used to release loads of obscure American punk albums.
Howl Griff are no strangers to my CD player and the new single Crash & Burn is not quite like it's Manics namesake, but has a poppy and almost country feel to it. Unoffensive, nice use of brass and easy to hum after one listen. The flipside is Bluebirds, not sure if it's a reference to Cardiff City's quest for Premiership football, maybe, and again, lovely production and easy on the ear. Not out of place on Radio 2 or 6 and thankfully, it'll never make daytime Radio One cos Howl Griff haven't been on X-Factor. Jesus! I hate that station and that show; although how can I say I hate something I NEVER listen to or watch...?
One thing you're guaranteed from Ankst is something different from the norm, be it the surplice clad bonkersness of Anne Matthews in the guise of Annalogue or those natives of the People's Republic of Rajasthan, Wendykurk. So if you put those two in a blender, added the diesel engine of a Vauxhall Chevette that had done over 150,ooo miles in reverse and then poured the lot down the pan, you may get an inkling of what Klaus Kinski sound like. Their new single Happiness Happiness is about sticking things in themselves and/or other beings; as are most of their songs. For this reason, I have a strange and definitely morbid fascination with all things Klaus Kinski, which is probably very unhealthy. The songs are as if the aforementioned contents of that blender have been splattered onto a wall in a Rhyl police cell on New Year's Day and then a class of 5 year old children have told to write about it... Believe me, this is probably true..!!
www.ankst.co.uk
www.myspace.com/recordiaudockradrecords

My Bloody Book

I’ve been writing the goddam thing for two years… yes, admittedly intermittantly! It seemed like a good idea at the time; collate all the info I have on all these bands that have breathed life (however briefly) into the music scene on the North Wales coast. Put it all into some semblance of order for your reading pleasure.What I didn’t realise was the amount of information I actually had, and the endless numbers of new avenues I opened up when I sought new info.The starting point was easy, and the bulk of significant events from 1976 to 2003 are done, edited and locked down - all 187 pages of it..!!! So I can guarantee you it’ll be a detailed, and hopefully good read.There have been a couple of notable absentees who have ignored requests for info or thoughts or contributions, so they may be misrepresented in the book; but I guess that’s perogative, and the vast majority of people have been extremely helpful as I tried to piece together their histories.
This Patch of Land has a publishing deal in place and I’ve promised myself to finish it as soon as possible…Coming to an Amazon bookstore near you next spring…!!!!!Maybe…

Sonisphere 2009

 

The weekend began for myself in my newly adopted home village of Trelawnyd; not really the epicentre of all things rock ‘n’ roll but quaint all the same. In fact, had I not been dragged kicking and screaming across this nation’s motorway network I’d have spent Saturday night across the road at my new neighbours’ house-warming party (I later learned they got through 150 burgers and 8lb of bacon..! Some party!). The Bethesda minibus picked me up, driven by a reluctant Tim who proceeded to cough swine flu over me throughout the 5 hour journey. A familiar whiff of earthly smoken goods reached my senses as the children in the back sparked up to make the journey a little more enjoyable, but I don’t need any of God’s gifts and soon found myself drifting beyond the ether.

With the A55, M56, M6 and M1 safely circumnavigated and the 8 of us carefully smuggled into the ‘family rooms’ at the Travelodge we made Dunstable a priority (for some reason) and sampled their finest Thai cuisine before hitting the town.

‘I think I really have got swine flu’ moaned Tim the next morning as he turned over onto his cold kebab.

Sonisphere 2009 - the first one. We arrived at Knebworth and realised our £70 tickets were completely redundant. Yep — we walked straight in through a hole in the fence. No security, no drama, just a big open invite for the cheapskate faithful.

It’s been a long summer and it’s only the first week of August. Sonisphere being the 7th maybe 8th Festival I’ve attended this year, and there’s still a couple more to do. Decided early on that 2009 would be one big festival, and why the hell not eh? What’s wrong with shaving 5 years off your life if that five years was going to be spent shitting your pants in an old people’s home?

Sonisphere wasn’t on my radar, Tim called me up in Prestatyn Football Club of all places and asked if I was up for it. 'Of course', I unwittingly replied, not really knowing what it was all about. Having sludged through the mud of Wakestock, some bright spark decided we would have the luxury of a hotel for this one, and the Travelodge on Junction 13 of the M1 Southbound was booked for 8 of us. Seemed a good idea at the time ’til we realised Knebworth was a £75 taxi ride away; at least there was safety in numbers!

We delighted in the trappings of downtown Dunstable for the first night, crashing back to the room at stupid o’clock and ensuring a stinking hangover would follow us around until we washed it away with a £3.80 pint of cider.

Let’s get something straght here, I don’t do all that ‘Let’s be fucking hearing you Knebworth’ and ‘Come on motherfuckers, let’s make some noise’ metal bollocks that these kids like, I’m just here for the crack.

Crystal Meth aside it’s the vibe I’ve got into rather than the music (this being my 3rd ‘rock’ festival of the year).

We wandered into the arena just in time to catch the dying strains of Buckcherry’s last song. Slightly gutting for Tim, but it was soon shaken off as the highlight, by a mile, was stumbling upon a group of outrageous Dutch buskers called Blaas of Glory — decked out like marching-band metal maniacs, blasting out heavy rock classics in a full-on oompah/cabaret/brass band style. Think Ace of Spades with trumpets and tuba swagger. They were hilarious, technically brilliant, and totally captivating. That performance alone made the trip worthwhile.

Me and Tim ditched the rest of the gang to go see Killing Joke, hoping for something raw and unpredictable. Unfortunately, they delivered a fairly disappointing greatest hits set — competent, but lacking the edge or intensity we’d hoped for.

The rest of the day was a blur of chatting to rock chicks, drifting between bands, soaking up the atmosphere, and people-watching — which was half the entertainment. Some great characters, some complete melts, but all part of the fabric. Saw Feeder (it was a good set, I knew many more song than I thought I did). Lamb Of God were ace, and a really scary moshpit! Also saw Machine Head and a bit of high school nostalgia from Saxon (Biff!).

We kept the drinking modest — not by choice, but because £3.80 a pint was absolute daylight robbery. That said, the music kept spirits high. Nine Inch Nails delivered a tight, industrially sharp set — Trent Reznor still has it. Then came the headliners: Metallica. Three hours of metal royalty. Impressive, yes, but three hours!! The crowd was so rammed we could not escape.

When it was all over, we just wanted to crash back at the Travelodge in Toddington — it was about 28 miles from Knebworth, but it might as well have been 200. No lifts, no buses, no one taking pity. We were properly stranded. In the end, we had to split a £72 taxi fare just to get back. Brutal.

Still, no regrets — not a bad way to blow a Sunday.

It was all too much for me in the end

You Fat Bastard

'...he's so fat he can't wipe his own arse!'
Well, not quite but I have piled on a few pounds in the last few months, probably a culmination of eating too much, drinking too much, changing jobs and less stress! I haven't exactly gone up a dress size, but I guess at 42 I should be keeping an eye on what goes in my mouth (steady now!). We did Download Festival last week (we being the fellowship of divorcees - seven years for me now!) and on the third day we staggered through the dust in the hot sun, extremely hungover, and one of the boys asked the question, 'Why do we do this to ourselves?'
And I quipped, 'Because we can!'
Nothing else was needed to be said. We do it because we can.
Download was on occasion a musical shock to the punk blood that throbs through my system, and I just about survived Def Leppard via means of a Jack Daniels drip. It was only fair to take Tim up on his suggestion that we accompanied him to this Rawk Festival, as he has endured many a thrashed out pure punk show over the years, which is no mean feat for a boy brought up on the likes of Whitesnake (yikes).
So what has my waistline gotta do with this? Well, not a lot really, it's more my health that causes a tad of concern, only because when you hit my age you start getting a little paranoid and think that any over doing it could leave you lying on a cold slab. Perhaps 4 days and 4 nights of drunken debauchery, eating shit and sleeping 4 hours in 24 on hard ground, coupled with crowd surfing to Faith No More and baking in the midday sun is for those younger than ourselves.
Ah fuck it - live fast, die tired....

French Connection

Spent 3 days in the searing scorching heat of rural France last weekend - it was the first time they had had sun in a fortnight so I was lucky enough to burn my pen moel (bald head to you non-Welsh) heathens. The barbecue smoked, the Crudlets and Frenchlets played and the Jack Daniels flowed (wine drinking is a myth, the French are strictly hardcore!) -
Celine had her iPlayer on random, rattling out all kinds of weird and wonderful sounds, until something very familiar pulsed across the Gallic countryside, 'I know this... what is it?' I enquired.
'You should do, it's The Racketears.' She replied, well, perhaps not in such good English, but I understood. She had heard them on my podcast and downloaded as much of the Colwyn Bay band as was legally possible.
The power of radio...
Let's hope we all go out to see, not only The Racketears, but whoever Blood & Lipstick promoter Steve Rastin puts on at the Zu Club in Rhyl. We need to support this new venture and do so regularly; not just those who live in the town, but the bods from Colwyn Bay, Holywell and inland. The opening night is on September 10th (Wednesday of course!)
Zu Bar

Globally Parasitically Correct

Thirteen years ago today Martin Wilding, Steve Sync, Robin Hemuss, Steve Jones, Cumi Pants and myself alighted the stage at The Vlietpop festival in Den Haag as the Sons of Selina. So it was quite fitting and warming to read another Colwyn Bay band's plight of entertaining our Dutch cousins earlier this month.
Global Parasite have been making noises on the scene for a little over 18 months and have worked their way up to heady heights of the modern punk scene.None of this was by being in the right place at the time, it is through sheer hard work and total determination - 'have band, will travel' - they play anywhere and everywhere, and remarkably without their own transport.
Global Parasite spawned from The Cox who were the punk heroes of their own backyard and released the absolute classic single Nailbomb The Dancefloor, a semi-jocular assault on the disco club culture 'I'm gonna sign up to the Al-Qaeda... DJ die you fucking cunt.' It certainly was an assault on the senses and a doctored version was played many times on BBC Radio Wales by Adam Walton.
The Cox were doomed because of Leigh's phobia; the guitarist had a reluctance to travel, which handicapped the band and tied them to a short stretch of the North Wales coast. Global Parasite are a progression of The Cox; Ste, Matt and Dave dedicate themselves to the cause, with strong politically-anarcho-punk beliefs and the ability to pen more stomping anthems such as the single Smash The New World Order, and more importantly, the ability to take their message to any town or city they choose. Chances are they'll play in a town near you, go and see them it'll be worth the fiver's entrance fee. In an age crammed with old punk bands in their mid-forties playing the same combination of three chords, it's refreshing to see a young punk band playing more dynamically progressive tunes and crowd surfing their way to the front of the scene.
http://www.myspace.com/globalparasite

Chewing The Gum

A new law has been passed in Denbighshire; it is now illegal to spit chewing gum on the pavement. This is a momentous occasion and it is warming to see hundreds of youths being carted off in cattle trucks to be administered their punishments.
Of course the new law is more the result of one councillor’s crusade after stepping in the sticky discarded stuff one time too many and will do little, if nothing to tackle the problem of the chewing gum mosaic pavements we have in the county.
Unless I’m terribly mistaken, it is against the law to discard waste onto the streets and yet a walk down Rhyl high street is more of a wade as you’ll find yourself knee deep in litter. How many times do you open the paper and read of a prosecution for littering the streets? One look at the swirling array of crisp packets and McDonalds cartons will tell you not very often.
It’s fine to spend time and money passing laws that will prove completely useless in the face of volleys of chewed up gum, but perhaps a different perspective on the problem should be taken – Chewing gum is obviously resilient stuff, it sticks to the pavement forever. Why not use it to tarmac the roads instead? You could even go as far as passing a law that only dark grey coloured gum is allowed to be sold in the county and therefore won’t show up on the streets!

Worming Books

I may or may not come as a surprise, but I have spent the last five months writing a book on the History of The Alternative Scene in North Wales. From the rudimentary beginnings of The Alarm to the present day bands and people.
What began as an idea to simply collate the information I have at hand on the link2wales website has become a mammoth task of interviewing and emailing countless people involved in the scene. Some have ignored my requests, but most have been more than helpful; excellent in fact, with a whole host of stories that'll make you laugh, gasp and read in disbelief.
It was a difficult decision to go ahead with the book - one publisher had offered me a far better deal if I had included the whole of Wales; but it was a deal not worth giving up work for, which is what I would have had to have done to take on such a task. Plus North and South Wales may as well be on opposite sides of the world. So North Wales it is - I'll probably be lucky to sell 500 copies, but it is something I've always wanted to do, something I've held close to my heart and something you'll really enjoy reading - when it eventually comes out...
If anyone has an idea for a title - please let me know...

Democracy Phone In

I was reading in the local rags a couple of weeks ago about some councillor or other and then a letter from a disgruntled Rates Payer moaning about the huge bill of 'expenses' our councillors run up.
Let's face reality here, anyone, and I mean anyone (over 18) can be a councillor if they have enough friends. I'm not certain of the figures but it would not surprise me in the slightest if some councillors are voted into their seat of power with fewer than a hundred votes. This is hardly representing the people of their ward, and I doubt that even 10% of a councillor's constituents could tell you the name of their representative (I couldn't!).
Why? Simple, dogs fouling pavements, planning approval for a new shop, Grading buildings, setting speed limits etc. Not really rivetting stuff is it! Apathy has for many years been at the heart of the British democracy. The general public don't really care, it doesn't concern them if Gordon Brown is running the country or if Gerry Forbisher is planting a token tree on the Ffrith. A 36% turn out at the last General Election and 40 of your mates to get you voted onto the local council. So along with democracy, fascism and communism, you also have Apathy as a new and very popular kind of politics because people would rather sit at home and watch TV.
That's the answer! TV! Political Big Brother, vote your worst MP out of the House; the public love doing things like that, and they'd even pay the premium phone-line rates to do so. I'm A Politician Get Me Outta Here, Play Your Councillors Right, Councillor Fortunes, Council Idol, Councillordown, The Weakest Link, One Man and His Councillor, Ant & Dec's Saturday Night Councillor, the list is endless and it would make voting far more fun!

Casting The Crud

The quest is on this year to push the Crud Cast online radio show to more listeners – I launched the CrudCast myspace page last week and response has been good, and unlike the last few years, the effort needs to be sustained with a weekly show (rather than when I could be arsed).
Last year, each show had more listeners, but only because there’d be a month (usually longer) hiatus between each episode, thus giving people longer to source the show. This year I’ve done it weekly – it’s decreased the number of listeners to each show, but the task is now to increase the awareness and bring in more listeners.So who exactly sits down and listens to what is really a specialist show? Probably the bands that are on it and other bands! When I say specialist, it’s not really that – it’s not like an hour dedicated to Brutal Hardcore or Back Street Colwyn Hip-Hop. Someone once described me as John Peel’s alter ego, and I guess Peel’s eclectic bent is there simply by the fact it was he who moulded my musical tastes through those influential teenage years.The length of the show was also a factor – there’s enough music at hand to go and on, but my time is limited and so is yours! So an hour a week is more than enough I think and it’ll fit nicely onto your iPod. The aim is to now establish CrudCast through the medium of myspace and link2wales and with flyers at gigs, and then eventually by advertising it in the music press.Let me know what you think…
http://www.myspace.com/crudcast

Blu Was The Colour

Bar Blu in Rhyl town centre closed its doors one final time last Saturday (19th Jan), not only depriving the community of a nightclub, but more importantly (in my eyes), also ending 5 years of gigs at the most unlikeliest of venues.
We all raised a collective eyebrow when local promoter, Steve Rastin announced he was to put on gigs at Bar Blu. We all raised the other eyebrow when he said it was going to be on a Wednesday night.
Gigs? In a one horse town like Rhyl! On a Wednesday night? It wouldn't last... Well it didn't, but 5 years of entertainment, good nights, average nights and poor nights was a good run. We took the rough with the smooth and enjoyed and endured whatever and whoever Bar Blu hosted.
The venue, for all its bad points (bad sound, wrong shape etc) allowed three bands a week, every week to play. That's around 750 performances from touring Canadian professionals like Zeroscape, to the barely out of school locals like The 4 Sticks. Add to the list the live debuts of Gintis, Jives Room and Der Bomber amongst others who went on to release albums and record BBC sessions and you may see how vital this place had become to the local music community.
Times have changed though over the last twenty years; Rhyl used to boast more nightclubs than Jordan's had boob jobs, and most of them were open 6 days a week (the clubs, not Jordan's err...). Things seemed to turn over the millennium, maybe by coincidence or by public conscience. Tired of being charged high admission prices, even by pubs on New Years Eve, people discovered the fun of partying at home with friends, and also the financial and safety benefits of doing so. The clubs felt the pinch and one by one they began to disappear.
On a positive note, by the time you read this Steve Rastin will have struck a new partnership to continue his tireless work in promoting new music in the area.

Money Money Money

I was listening to Roley's Dark Compass podcast, and he complained that he's skint. Too bloody right, where has all me cash gone? Have I spent that much on beer? Does taking a week off work to celebrate the birth of our (ahem) Lord Jesus Christ mean I'm gonna be brassic for the next month? Well, yes basically. Self employment means no work, no money and definitely no holiday pay! I had two grand in the bank just before the Pagan Festivities; I unlocked the safe last Wednesday and I'm five hundred quid overdrawn! Where the fuck has it all gone? Ok, ok a grand has gone on the mortgage and maintenance, but £1500 on Christmas!? One thousand five hundred English pounds..! Jesus! (him again!). Yes I bought the Crudlets and family presents, yes I had a few scoops with my friends, yes I went to a couple of gigs, I bought some merchandise, couple of t-shirts and CDs, but fifteen hundred smackeroonys? Perhaps I've been cyber-raped - I'll have to check.
Back to the mortgage - why do we do it? To own our home? It's dead money, renting, they'll tell you; and yet on the continent it's what a larger section of the population do. You can tell people you've got a £100,000 mortgage, but the reality is you have a £250,000 mortgage because that's what you'll be paying back to your fat greedy mortgage lender over the next two decades. And may the Lord have mercy upon your soul if you fall behind with your payment. Perhaps you should look into the meaning behind the word 'mortgage' -
Mort is Latin for Death, and Gage is near enough to Gauge. Yes, you've got a £100,000 deathgauge - you work hard all your life, you own your own house and then you die. Was it really worth it....

Radio One Blew Over The Cockoo's Breast

The stiffs in suits at BBC Radio One are defending a decision to edit lyrics out of the song Fairytale of New York by The Pogues and the late Kirsty MacColl. The track was first released back in 1987 and is being played on Radio 1 in the run up to Christmas with the word faggot removed. The BBC says members of the audience would find it offensive. But the decision was branded "ridiculous" by Radio 1 DJ Chris Moyles, who is leading a campaign to make the 1987 song the Christmas number one.
Twenty years of playing this track unedited hasn't really left the British listening public up in arms, or screaming 'Equal rights for faggots.' That's because the British public doesn't really care, or at least is not going to be offended by such a word. It takes you back to the days when the station had been playing Frankie Goes To Hollywood's Relax for weeks until DJ Mike Reid had a moment of realisation and learned that the song was filled with sexual connotations.
The Beeb has long seen itself as judge and jury to what we can and cannot hear. Radio does seem to be the last bastion of 'decency' - whereas on TV you can hear every word a 12 year old will look for in the Oxford Dictionary after the watershed, but you won't hear it on the radio - or very rarely anyway. This is quite remarkable when you consider that you're actually seeing and hearing someone swear on the box in the corner, but on the wireless it's deemed as too offensive.
TV has changed, some may say become more liberated over the years. The BBC used to show blockbusting movies carefully dubbed to alter the swear words. I remember watching Robo-Cop and rather than bleeping words like MF - they over dubbed them with 'Mother-Crusher' etc. This is despite the fact the film was full of gratuitous violence and mindless killing; but at least the British public could switch off the telly safe in the knowledge that if they're ever going to get the living daylights beaten out of them in the street by an easily influence kid, at least they won't be swore at...!

TV Eye

I occasionally get drawn to the TV - shite TV. Yes I'll watch a film most nights I'm not out, but that's late on, usually after 11pm.
What I'm talking about is shite TV - I mean soap operas...
Coronation Street..! I was drawn to the wedding of the err... ahem... year between Sarah and Jason. It would be crap if they managed to get married without a hitch - what sort of soap opera would that be like...! Every single one has a dramatic wedding, be it Eastenders, Neighbours, Emmerdale, Eldorado, Holly Oaks etc etc...
Sarah has a deranged half-brother called David Platt (not the ex-footballer) played by the highly believable (for a soap star) Jack Shepherd.
The soon to be wedded couple are at the altar, but David has vowed [sic] to spoil their day and has gone missing, threatening suicide. Only Sarah and her mate know about this and tore up his 'suicide note.' Mother Gail Platt has informed the police that her son is merely missing and had taken his blue car.
As the ceremony takes place, David drives his car into the Manchester Ship Canal.
Now this is where the barely believable story becomes ridiculously unbelievable...
The police turn up at the wedding - insisting to speak to Gail Platt just as her daughter is about to take her vows. They tell her a blue car was seen only a few minutes earlier by a member of the public being driven into the canal...
Now hold on a minute... They hadn't seen the car themselves - the divers had yet to go in, and therefore the only news they had was from a witness. Find me a police force in the UK that would interrupt a wedding to tell the bride's mother that someone has reported (not found) a blue car being driven into a canal...? And also a police force would can act quick enough to discover that the family are at a wedding in a church and not at home.
What a load of bollocks, - at least Stacey shagging her new husband's Dad over on Eastenders was a little more believable, if not just as shite..!

Nomadic Tendencies

I lost count about 5 moves ago, I used to keep a list of all the abodes I have lived in. It was something like 33 I think... In the thirties anyway.
The House of Crud, Crud Acres, Crud Towers and now Crud Cottage.. A nice little 5 bedroomed settlement in the village of Dyserth. A few paces up the road are two pubs, a little further is the spectacular waterfall we used in the Dimmock, Definately Dimmock sketch; the same setting we used to film The Alarm's single 'Raindown'. Across the road is the Alarm's rehearsal studios, where Martin Wilding busy's himself mixing and recording until I tempt him to the evils of the pub.
Crud Towers was a great flat - 3 huge bedrooms for the Crudlets to trash, but it was the location that let it down - bang in the centre of Rhyl. Fantastic for crawling home from a gig and a birds eye view of the Taxi Rank fights - but awful for parking, trying sleep at night and, well... its on the edge of the most socially deprived area in Europe - The West End of Rhyl...!

While I was on the move, so was North Wales gig promoter Blood & Lipstick; or Steve Rastin as he's known to his friends. He took the bold and brave decision to end a four year relationship with Bar Blu in Rhyl and take his operations to the newly vamped Billys on the prom.
I have always enjoyed a good relationship with Blu's Tony - I drink lots of his beer, provide him with alternative music for his sound system and review the bands who play there. So it was almost inevitable that he would ask me to promote bands when Steve pulled out. Under any other circumstances I would've been happy to help; not so much putting gigs on - life is stressful enough without adding to it..! Although I'm happy to continue as I have; reviewing, previewing etc.
The circumstances are thus...
'This town ain't big enough for the both of us...' Rhyl cannot sustain two regular band nights a week; let alone on the same night. Yes, Dave Cox and The Punk in Drublic contingent will continue with their own exclusive punk scene, spread across the coast, but two venues both putting on bands of the same ilk on the same Wednesday night...?
No, I Don't think so...
No, I know so...

The solution for Blu is to change their night, although Wednesday is the coolest night to go out these days, thanks to Blu and B&L - people go out for a purpose, most nobheads save their nobheadedness for the weekend and the scallies don't get their Dole money til Thursday, so Wednesday is not only cool, its pretty safe!
Billys Bar, like Blu is a trendy nightspot - and a bolt out of the err... blue when live nights were announced. There have been many who have courted Steve Rastin in attempts to lure his musical and promoting prowess away from Bar Blu, and someone finally came up with enough goods to make Adam eat the apple.
It had to taste good - the live nights were established; recognised on the UK's small band circuit and had a homemade crowd who were present for live music rather than a particular band.
So Billys Bar is like the next rung up, a proper live rig, lights, and big enough to attract bands up that next rung perhaps? The Cribs? Gossip? Wombats? Ting Tings? Holloways?
Add this to the dedicated Podcast that Green Dragon has done and you nearly have the complete package to attract more people and bigger bands. Me and The Dean will film a track next week and see if we can edit and process a YouTube video to boot...

Poo Camp in Betws

“Dad, I need a poo.”

Not the most unusual sentence to hear from your seven-year-old — but when it comes just after midnight, in a tent, in a cold, dewy Welsh field, it hits differently.

I was only half-conscious, drifting in that foggy space between heavy sleep and stomach rumble. The quilt I’d brought as a mat had long been requisitioned for warmth, the tent was zipped tight on all sides, and the toilets were fifty metres away — across a stream, through knee-deep grass, and in absolute darkness. No lights. No moon. Just stars overhead and a near-dead rechargeable torch that had promised three hours but fizzled out after 35 minutes.

Then came the panicked follow-up:

“DAD!”

Cue emergency manoeuvres.

I wrestled with the sleeping bag zip. Then the tent zips — all three of them, stubborn and twisted like they had a personal vendetta. Meanwhile, Declan's voice was cracking with urgency, and I was scrambling for my trainers, now realising with cold clarity that I never untied the laces. Why? Why were they so tight?

The realisation hit me like a slap to the guts:

That instant barbecue earlier. The one that didn’t light properly, where the sausages and bacon had to cook on the one corner that managed a half-hearted glow. The hunger won out. We ate them anyway.

Instant Barbecue, my arse.

More like Instant Salmonella.

Declan was now shaking. I picked him up and sprinted through the wet grass, shoes half-on, torch barely flickering. The stream trickled ahead — though in the moment it sounded like a raging torrent. Where was the narrowest crossing point?

Too late.

SPLASH.

My right foot plunged straight into the icy water. I didn’t stop. Couldn’t. I legged it to the toilet block, got him to a cubicle but it was too late. As I plonked him on the pan Mount Vesuvius erupted and sprayed the walls, floor and toilet. It was like a scene from Kill Bill - only the walls weren't covered in blood... 

Oh dear...

Exhausted and freezing now, I quickly cleaned Declan up, closed the offending toilet door and carried him back on the return journey. Grass, stream, darkness.

SPLASH.

Left foot. Of course. Soggy symmetry.

We collapsed back into the tent, wrapped ourselves in the quilt, and, mercifully, the rest of the night passed without further incident.

The next morning, still bleary-eyed and damp-socked, we made our way back to the toilet block to freshen up. And there it was — Declan’s crime scene. His cubicle had been taped off with red-and-white barrier tape, a bold “OUT OF ORDER” sign slapped across the door like the aftermath of a gas leak.

Declan took one look, grinned, and declared proudly:

“I think my bottom exploded last night.”

---

📍 Location:

Wild campsite near Betws-y-Coed, Snowdonia

Conditions: Cold. Pitch black. Boggy.

Survivors: One soggy dad, one hollowed-out child.

Key lesson:

When an Instant Barbecue refuses to light — take the hint. Don't mess with the meat.