First time I saw Subhumans

Dick Lucas - vocalist of Subhumans, Culture Shock and Citizen Fish

As a kid, my relationship with music involved envelopes, stamps, and blind faith in the British postal service. While other children were sensibly spending their paper-round money on sweets and football stickers, I was carefully sealing £1.50 in an envelope and sending it off to a mysterious address in Melksham. A week later, like anarcho-punk Father Christmas, Bluurg Records & Tapes would send back the latest release by Subhumans, AOS3 or Shrapnel.

I’d slap the record onto a second-hand player my mum had heroically sourced for £25, sit cross-legged on the floor, and study the lyric sheet like it was sacred scripture. Other kids were revising maths tables; I was learning how to dismantle society with a three-chord progression. I praised the lord for giving us the Subhumans — though I suspect they would’ve strongly objected to being included in any religious gratitude list.

Fast-forward six or seven years and the teenage dream began bleeding into real life. My band (4Q) at the time supported Culture Shock in Bradford, and some 30 years on their vocalist Dick Lucas actually remembered the gig. This felt like being knighted, if knighthoods involved vans that smelt faintly of damp denim and patchouli oil. A few years later in the early 90s, I caught Citizen Fish at The Ship & Castle in Caernarfon, which felt like a sequel nobody had planned but everyone enjoyed.

And then came 2008. The year the childhood circle completed itself at The Dirty Weekend Festival in Hendre Hall. The Subhumans’ first proper foray into North Wales. The band that had soundtracked my teenage bedroom finally stood in front of me, real and loud and unapologetically alive.

They’d grown out of the same early-80s anarchist soil as a whole generation of DIY punk, orbiting similar ideas but always stubbornly themselves. And there they were: older, wiser, still furious, still funny, still sounding like the world needed urgently fixing.

Ask anyone in that packed, sweaty, mohican-speckled crowd and you’d have received the same answer: what a performance. Old songs, new songs — everything landed like a stamp on the forehead. Crisp. Clear. Furious. Joyful. The kind of gig that makes you remember why you fell in love with music in the first place.

Of course, the honest truth is that my memory of the set gradually dissolves into a warm, blurry haze as the evening progressed and my liver entered negotiations with reality. By the end, my brain had quietly slipped out the back door without telling me.

But maybe that’s fitting. Because the important part wasn’t remembering every song. It was the moment itself — the long, ridiculous journey from posting coins in an envelope to standing in a room watching the band that shaped your teenage worldview.

A big, fat, juicy tick on the life list, and I've ticked it several times since seeing Subhumans again and again. And I will again.

Welcome to your dystopian future

They didn’t announce the takeover. There was no dramatic midnight broadcast, no marching boots, no flag unfurling against a storm. That would have been crude, theatrical. Instead, the shift arrived softly—wrapped in convenience, padded with cheerful marketing, delivered by subscription.

The first sign was the letter that never came. The job that vanished without ceremony. No redundancy meeting, no awkward handshake, just a quiet disappearance into a statistical column labelled “efficiency gains.” You weren’t fired; you were optimized. The language was kinder than reality. Reality was a shrug.

It turns out mass unemployment is easier to swallow when it feels like a software update.

Invisible government doesn’t rise through coups or revolutions. It emerges through procurement contracts, consulting firms, and pilot programs. The public face still waves from podiums, still debates passionately on television, still promises change every election cycle. But somewhere behind the curtain, a quieter administration takes root—one that doesn’t need votes, only metrics.

Their ideology is simple: the nation is a spreadsheet.

Every citizen is a cost centre, a productivity curve, a risk profile. Some cells glow green. Others flash amber. A few blink red until someone presses delete.

Of course, they would never call it deletion. They call it sustainability. Resilience. Long-term planning. Words that taste like vitamins and smell like bleach.

The public still argues about policy. They rage online about taxes, borders, culture wars, statues. The spectacle is necessary. A population must feel politically engaged the way toddlers feel involved in cooking when handed a wooden spoon. Meanwhile the real decisions are made by people whose names never appear on ballot papers and whose job titles sound like PowerPoint slide headings.

Strategic Foresight. Population Outcomes. Future Viability.

They don’t rule you directly. They shape the systems that rule you, which is far more elegant.

You notice it first in the language of burden. Burden of pensions. Burden of healthcare. Burden of welfare. A curious term, burden. It implies weight without specifying who is tired of carrying it. Soon enough the burden begins to look suspiciously like people who are old, poor, sick, inconvenient, or statistically expensive.

Then comes the miracle of crisis. A new emergency arrives just when budgets grow tight. War or a health scare, perhaps. A whisper of contagion. The public learns new vocabulary overnight and begins to monitor its own behaviour with religious fervour. Compliance becomes patriotism. Suspicion becomes civic duty.

And suddenly the idea of reducing the “burden” doesn’t sound monstrous. It sounds pragmatic. Necessary, even. A reluctant kindness.

No one needs to say the quiet part aloud. The algorithm understands subtext.

Meanwhile the high street fades like an old photograph. Independent shops close one by one, their windows papered over with pastel rectangles. The supermarkets bloom in their place—cathedrals of logistics and predictive analytics. Every purchase becomes a confession. Every receipt, a diary entry. Your cravings, your routines, your weaknesses: catalogued with loving precision.

You tell yourself it’s just convenience. It is convenient. That’s the brilliance of it. Oppression is exhausting; convenience is irresistible.

Your living room becomes the new public square. Entertainment streams endlessly. News arrives pre-digested, pre-sorted, pre-approved. Everything is on demand except meaning. The screen asks nothing of you except attention, which you surrender gladly because the alternative is silence—and silence leaves room for thinking.

Thinking is inefficient.

5G and cheap broadband spreads like tap water. A noble achievement, officially. Universal connection. Equal access. But the same pipe that delivers amusement delivers narrative. The same cable that streams sitcoms streams certainty. You never feel propagandised because propaganda now feels like ambience.

It hums in the background, like a fridge.

Polls appear constantly, glowing with reassuring results. The public is satisfied. The public approves. The public trusts. You are the public, of course, though you have no memory of being asked. The numbers look so clean, so comforting. They must be true. Numbers are honest in a way people aren’t.

And so the invisible government never needs to lie outright. It simply curates reality until the truth becomes statistically improbable.

Care homes become quiet places. Efficient places. Places where the costs taper off in neat, downward lines. Hospitals run on austerity and applause. Applause is cheaper. Applause is renewable. Applause doesn’t require funding allocations.

Remember clapping from your doorway, feeling heroic and strangely hollow?

The remarkable thing is how normal it all feels. That’s the real triumph. Dystopia, it turns out, is not a thunderclap but a background process. It installs itself while you scroll. It updates while you sleep. It reboots while you argue about something else entirely.

“It couldn’t happen here,” people say, comforted by the geography of denial.

But the invisible government doesn’t live in a place. It lives in systems, in incentives, in dashboards and quarterly targets. It lives wherever efficiency becomes morality and human beings become line items.

It doesn’t need to conquer you.

It just needs you to log in.

#217 - Neil Crud on Louder Than War Radio

Fresh releases, old favourites, bargain-bin rescues and gig-ready bangers — Show #217.

We kicked things off in suitably lysergic fashion with Standard Issue Pleasure Model and Acid Punk, a track that’s been floating around long enough to feel familiar but has finally landed where it belongs on the Tripsitter album. The band hail from British Columbia and the record only dropped on Friday, so this felt like the perfect moment to give it its proper on-air christening. Plus I usurped Noises From The Bottom Left Corner who is playing it on his Saturday show this week.

Staying on the acid-tinged theme, Cold Feet delivered Acid Death from their 2020 Punk Entity EP — their last release to date and still sounding raw and sharp years later.

From there it was time for Bangor’s own Skinflick and D Is For Death from Fourth Wall Of A Deathcult. Birthday shout-out to Justin, who celebrated by playing a rare Blackpool gig — and if you listen closely you can practically hear new material bubbling away in some alleyway rehearsal room already.

A welcome trip to the late 90s followed with Four Letter Word and Unconditional from the Zero Visibility (Experiments With Truth) sessions. Originally released in 1999 and later reissued by Boss Tuneage, it feels newly rediscovered thanks to a perfectly timed label sale that resulted in an armful of bargain vinyl. Punk rock economics at its finest.

The agitation level rose with Grant Sharkey and 4th4, taken from Actual Intelligence. Sharkey continues to do what he does best — poking the establishment while preparing to take Webber The Musical to the Edinburgh Fringe. Subtlety has never been the point.

Upcoming gig energy kicked in with Clobber’s Council Estate Of Mind, ahead of their Outpost and London dates, before Grade 2 reminded everyone why they’ve become one of the UK’s biggest modern street-punk exports. Better Today previews their fourth album Talk About It, released via Hellcat Records — a coming-of-age record shaped by growing up together in public.

International punk kept flowing: Italy’s Couchgagzzz previewed their forthcoming Primitive Men album and sounding not too dissimilar to show favourites Why Bother?, while fellow Italians Thunder Bomber delivered A Little Sadness ahead of their April release Boys Alive, promising genre-blurring punk with synths, sax and harmonica.

The acid thread returned courtesy of Warlockhunt with the Amon Acid Remix of We Are, tying into their appearance at next week’s NorthWest Doomfest in Chester — already sold out, naturally.

Also an exclusive! The Mistakes - Life’s Too Short - brand new track - single from their forthcoming album out soonish on Engineer Records.

From the same stable, Uncivilised crashed in with Click Bait from their brand-new Let Rip release, while Pray U Prey and Pandemix proved that Boss Tuneage bargains keep giving.

A run of big names followed: Evil Blizzard with the hypnotic Down Down Down, and street-punk legends The Casualties previewing their new album with Detonate ahead of Scarborough Punk Festival.

DIY and local scenes were heavily represented: Warrington’s TicNoToc, Bangor’s Charlie Garlic (live at The Skerries), Slovenia’s great export Slund, and almost a whole Outpost gig preview run from Chain Of Survival and Code Break.

The night finished by digging deep into UK post-punk history with Vital Disorders and their 1982 single Zombie.

---

Full Playlist

Standard Issue Pleasure Model – Acid Punk
Cold Feet – Acid Death
Skinflick – D Is For Death
Four Letter Word – Unconditional
Grant Sharkey – 4th4
Clobber – Council Estate Of Mind
Grade 2 – Better Today
Warlockhunt – We Are (Amon Acid Remix)
Couchgagzzz – Mighty Dog
The Mistake - Life’s Too Short
Uncivilised – Click Bait
Pray U Prey – Suffering Rules This World
Thunder Bomber – A Little Sadness
Evil Blizzard – Down Down Down
The Casualties – Detonate
TicNoToc – Piece Of Me
Charlie Garlic – Axe & Hammer (Live at The Skerries, Bangor 03.05.24)
Slund – Power Hungry
Pandemix – World War None
Chain Of Survival – Handbreak
Code Break – The Lost
Vital Disorders – Zombie

Drink Yourself Fitter - Run To The Pub

Duncan Black performing at Y Fricsan in 2009

I drove past what was Y Fricsan in Cwm-Y-Glo yesterday. It used to be a pub and it got me thinking: There was a time when Britain knew what mattered. We saved the whale. We saved the children. We even saved with the Woolwich (and look how that turned out). Now, dear reader, we must turn our attention to a far more pressing humanitarian crisis: the slow, dignified extinction of the North Wales pub.

In Wales, around 60 pubs a year are closing. Sixty. That’s one every six days. By the time you finish reading this, statistically speaking, a landlord somewhere will have turned off the lights, pulled down the blinds, and whispered “last orders” to the empty ghosts of quiz nights past. Rising costs, energy bills that resemble phone numbers, and the government taxing drinkers like they’re funding a small moon landing haven’t helped. But we must also address the twin villains of modern virtue: Dry January and Sober October — two months a year when the nation collectively decides water is “actually quite refreshing”. Disgraceful.

Take Y Fricsan, tucked away in Cwm-y-Glo between Llanrug and Llanberis, crouched heroically at the foot of Snowdonia like a pint glass shielding itself from the wind. To most people, it’s as unknown as the correct pronunciation of its postcode. But to those who’ve been, it was a cathedral of character: low ceilings, high spirits, and a guestbook that migrated onto the plaster above your head. If the signatures on the ceiling could talk, they’d mostly ask for another round.

I went there many years ago to watch some bands, the place was rammed for a fundraiser to save the pub!. Five pounds a head, shoulder-to-shoulder, sweat-on-sweat solidarity. A joyous, hopeful injection of cash. Which, in pub economics, is roughly equivalent to putting a sticking plaster on the Titanic. Because pubs don’t survive on charity weekends. They survive on Tuesdays. On accidental Thursdays. On the sacred ritual of “just popping in”. They survive on habit.

And this is where the Great National Abstinence Conspiracy comes in. Every January, millions of people discover sparkling water and begin using the word “mindful” unironically. Every October, the same people post pictures of herbal tea like they’ve discovered fire. For two entire months, the country collectively decides pubs are optional. Imagine running a café where everyone boycotted coffee in March and September. Imagine a barber where nobody cut their hair in June and December. Actually, bad example — some of us tried that during lockdown and still haven’t recovered.

The truth is simple: pubs run on winter. They run on dark nights and sideways rain. They run on the phrase, “It’s miserable outside so we might as well.” And right when they need you most, you’re at home sniffing kombucha and congratulating yourself for drinking sparkling sadness.

The future of places like Y Fricsan doesn’t lie in nostalgic Facebook posts that begin with “Remember when…”. It lies with the regulars: the drunks, hikers, holidaymakers, and, yes, the occasional dick head who trudge out of the rain and order another round. The midweek pint brigade. The Sunday lingerers. The “go on then, just the one” crowd who never mean it. Without them, the pub becomes a memory and Britain becomes a country where the most exciting night out is a supermarket meal deal and a documentary about Pub Closures.

So here’s a modest, sensible, entirely reasonable proposal. If you must take two months off drinking every year — and apparently you must — then let’s apply some basic logistics. Move them. Shift your noble abstinence to February and November: the cold, miserable post-Christmas financial wasteland and the pre-Christmas financial panic. Months when nobody needs help staying sober because they’re already broke and emotionally exhausted. Leave January and October alone. Let pubs have the months they actually need.

Tell your friends. Tell your family. Tell that bloke who keeps posting about his step count. This year we drink for Britain. We drink for Wales. We drink for the survival of sticky carpets and questionable jukeboxes. We drink for the little pubs clinging to the mountains, that is sadly now a Bakehouse (whatever that is).

Cancel Dry January. Sack off Sober October. If you must be virtuous, be virtuous in February and November when everyone else is hammering the pubs anyway. Because if we don’t, the next thing we’ll be saving won’t be whales or children — it’ll be the last pub standing. 🍻

This Week: Family hiking record buying gig missing

Two years to the day since Mum passed, the family decided to mark the anniversary with a pilgrimage up Moel Famau. Why Moel Famau? No one really knows. We're not entirely sure if she ever went up there. But she did have a serious case of hiraeth for the Clwydian Range, and in Welsh emotional logic that’s more than enough justification to drag nine adults up a hill.

The day began, as all meaningful spiritual journeys do, with an all-you-can-eat breakfast at Table Table in Rhuddlan (so good, apparently, they named it twice). If you’re going to climb a mountain, you need to carbo-load like you’re preparing for the apocalypse. Jane, Steve, Emma, Mark, Rhys, Charlotte, Erin, Tom and myself assembled for what was essentially four couples and one spare part (me), bravely consuming our bodyweight in hash browns before squeezing into two cars and heading off.

We rolled through the quiet of Cilcain and reached the trail car park under suspiciously good weather. Had it been yesterday we would have been doing this in horizontal glass rain. But today we were blessed or someone had successfully subscribed to the Premium Weather App. We thanked the heavens and set off.

The hike itself was a leisurely 3.5 hours — the perfect amount of time for what I can only describe as conversational speed-dating. Pair off, chat about life, rotate partners, repeat. By the summit we’d all been fully updated on careers, kids, aches, pains and existential dread. We’re basically conversational swingers.

The final push took us to the remains of Jubilee Tower, which sits proudly on the summit. The tower was originally built in 1810–1811 to celebrate the Golden Jubilee of Mad King George III. Designed by architect Thomas Harrison, it was meant to be a grand obelisk-style monument visible for miles. Unfortunately, the Welsh weather had other plans, and a storm in the mid-1800s badly damaged the structure, leaving it a romantic ruin for more than a century. It wasn’t until the late 20th century that restoration work made it safe and accessible again — so we could all wheeze our way up it and admire the view.

And what a view. On a clear day you can see as far as Cadair Idris to the south-west, along with sprawling Welsh / English countryside and distant cities in the opposite direction. It was peaceful, tranquil, and almost perfectly serene… apart from a Scouse drone buzzing around our heads like an electronic wasp.

Still, it was a genuinely lovely day and a rare chance to properly catch up as a family without screens, deadlines or the usual hullaballoo of real life.

In a plot twist nobody saw coming (except anyone who knows me), the very next evening I sat down on the couch “just for five minutes” and woke up over an hour later. This accidental coma meant I completely missed The Orb and System 7 playing up the road in Bethesda — a gig I was supposed to review for Louder Than War.

Only the day before I’d been telling people how much more energy I have these days. The universe clearly felt I needed humbling.

To soothe my wounded reviewer’s ego, I did what any responsible adult would do: bought records in a sale.

Boss Tuneage Records were offering free postage over £20, which is basically a legally binding invitation to spend £20. So I picked up four albums for about a fiver each:

• Four Letter Word – Zero Visibility
  Already a known quantity from radio play on my show and reliably excellent.
• Prey U Pray – Figure The 8
  Proper punk/metal and refreshingly long. Hardcore albums these days often clock in at the length of a kettle boil, so this felt positively prog.
• Pandemix – Love Is Obliteration
  You simply cannot go wrong with Pandemix.
• DL Burdon – Accidental Aesop
  Bought entirely because I liked the sleeve. A nostalgic throwback to teenage me getting the bus from Denbigh to Rhyl and gambling paper-round money on records judged purely by cover art. The jury is still out on this one. It’s… not really my bag. But the sleeve is cool, so at least my shelves look cultured.

Saturday was supposed to be a heroic double-header of live music.

Plan A: an early show at Rockpoint Records in New Brighton, featuring Italian entertainment maestros CUT whose tour poster accurately cites them as 'John Lee Hooker in a postpunk straitjacket,' alongside semi-Aussie dirtbags The Dry Retch.

Plan B: a heroic dash across the Mersey to the Baltic Triangle to see Fucked Up tearing it up at District at the start of their UK tour.

To all intents and purposes, none of this happened. Because I made the fatal mistake of thinking I could do it on public transport. My reasoning was that fuel is still rocketing skyward and I spend way too much time driving the car along the A55, so why not take a break and (possibly) save a little money too?

I made it as far as Chester station. Progress! From there I shimmied across the road to The Town Crier for a pint of Neck Oil to “work out the logistics.” This is the first sign things are about to go wrong in any story.

It turns out getting to New Brighton would take an hour and fifteen minutes by train. Longer by bus (it's only about 22 miles! - or 17mph!!). My Uber app kindly offered a faster option for the bargain price of £30. I like the bands, but I don’t like them that much! And anyway, who the fuck puts a gig on in New Brighton!? Ha ha!

So, in the company of friends and associates, I had another pint. Then another. Then another. You know the montage.

At some point, reality tapped me on the shoulder and reminded me that Arriva Cymru (or whoever runs the railways this week) has the last train back to North Wales leaving at 10:45pm on a Saturday. Every other night it’s 1:40am — making Liverpool gigs perfectly viable. But not tonight.

In fairness, if you’ve ever been part of the drunken debauchery on the last train home from Chester to North Wales after a Friday night, you can probably understand why the operator decided once per weekend was enough.

So instead of trashing my ears with live music on Merseyside, I trashed my insides with a Naga curry. The following morning I woke feeling like I’d gone ten rounds with a chilli and lost every single one. A curryover of the most vindictive and unforgiving kind.

Rock and roll is fucked up (see below)

This week - LTW festival / Crapsons / Holy Coves / no cars stolen

I was meandering among the grockles (tourists) on Llandudno Pier today and noticed the countless little plaques, screwed to the benches and railings - 

‘Frank and Brenda spent many happy times here’ 

‘Forever in our hearts’ 

Sadly Frank & Brenda are no longer with us, hence the plaque.

But there they are… commemorated by a small weathered plaque screwed to a bench on the Pier in Llandudno - immortalised in sea salt and seagull shit. 

And it made me think that, one day, apart from our immediate circle of family and friends, we’ll all be but plaques on park benches, or footnotes in people’s memories. 

People will say (they always do) what a great person you were, others will agree, and click a 💖 emoji before scrolling on. And that’s it… you’ll be scrolled over… until your memory pops up next year on Facebook or wherever.

So that’s why it’s so important to make your own memories - even if it’s a 2 hour walk around the Great Orme in Llandudno with your eldest daughter and youngest son. It’s time to catch up, while soaking in the stunning views and cry laughing at the banter between us.

Life is short and precious, and it’s definitely for living - you don’t need to change the world; just your world (if you feel it needs changing) - make a difference if you like, but only for the better, because those who do want to change the world are usually megalomaniacs.

Just look at the current global tensions. And by “tensions,” I mean the kind where world leaders go on TV and say things like “we must avoid escalation”… immediately followed by more escalation.

I had to put luxury liquid in the car to get to Llandudno, prices are shooting up, fuel costs are rising, which means everything else is rising, which means your bank account is currently filing for emotional support. At this point, filling up your car feels less like a necessity and more like a bold financial decision.

You can see all the energy companies High Fiving each other and adding the great dictator Trump to their xmas card list.
[War is sexy, war is fun, iron ego - Dead Kennedys]

Today’s two hour walk has emboldened my decision - to make 10,000 steps a day every day mandatory - not a choice - not a, oh 6000 will do today as it’s raining - no, it’s an absolute priority.

Yes — I know — try not to be intimidated by my athleticism, but for seven consecutive days this rule has been obeyed, and I bow before thee, well before myself…

I’ll be honest, I’ve been slacking lately. Some days I barely get off the sofa as the unrelenting rain smashes against the living room window. So I thought: enough is enough. Time to become one of those people - you know — the ones who say things like “just got my steps in” and somehow feel morally superior.

So I’ve recharged the Fitbit — which, by the way, had been dead for so long it was basically an archaeological find — and now when it tells me to move, I move. No questions asked. Even if it’s just a slow, slightly resentful lap around the block like I’m a dog that’s been forced out in that pissing rain.

But — the plot twist is — it’s working. Seven days in a row. 10k steps. Every day.

I don’t even recognise myself anymore. Who is she? Why is she outside in this awful weather? 

See! I told you!!

Now, alongside this fitness revolution, I’ve also decided to “eat myself fitter.” 

Which sounds positive, but comes with a catch — I am NOT buying anymore supermarket food until I’ve eaten what’s already in my cupboards. Because apparently, at some point, I started preparing for the apocalypse. Tins of beans, tomatoes, black eyed peas, chick peas - packets of pasta, mung beans, lentils, noodles, rice and a freezer full of …well, frozen stuff.

And look — I don’t want to alarm anyone — but I’m starting to think World War 3 might not actually kick off in time for me to justify this level of stockpiling, although that Orange maniac is having a proper go at justifying my food mountain… 

It’s like an addiction, I pop into the supermarket after work and pick up my tea at the reduced section - there’s also a carboot section of damaged tins and ripped packaging that I feel compelled to buy on account that I’m putting less money in the corporate pocket - does that make sense?

So, anyway, now I’m working through it. I’ve made menus based entirely on what I already have, and let me tell you — things are getting creative.

We’re talking dishes like… mung bean paella™.

Yes. That’s right.

I invented it. It’s mine. I’m trademarking it. Don’t even think about it.

At this point, my insides are basically a fibre processing plant. I am operating at levels previously thought impossible. I’m not saying it’s competitive in this house… but I am currently holding my own in the Farting Premier League.

Which is no small feat when you live with a 13-year-old boy.

This child — I’m convinced — could power a small village. Every morning, his quilt doesn’t just lie there. It gently hovers. Just… drifting. On a silent cushion of methane. It’s like a low-budget special effect.

I’m both impressed and deeply concerned.

Anyway — back to the cupboards. I reckon I’ve got about three weeks’ worth of food in there. Week one: fine. Week two: inventive. By week three, I fully expect the menu to look like it’s been written by a student in a bedsit who’s down to their last £3 and a questionable tin of something from 2009.

But you know what? I’m committed. - or I need committing…

Because for the next three weeks, I am not giving my money to Tesco. Apparently, every £1 in £8 in the UK goes there — and frankly, they’ve had enough of mine. We’re taking a break. A financial and emotional break.

So yeah — that’s where I’m at.

10k steps a day, experimental cuisine, and a household gas situation that should probably be monitored by professionals.

Alright — let’s talk culture. Because it’s not all steps, beans, and methane. Sometimes I leave the house for reasons other than being bullied by a Fitbit. Actually I spend so little time in the house that the utility companies think I’m fiddling the meters, as my bills are so low.

So — last weekend, I went to the Louder Than War festival in Manchester. And honestly? For an inaugural event — it was brilliant. Set in the excellent Manchester Academy building, a place I’ve seen some great bands in the past; it was like you’re witnessing something that might become a thing… or at the very least, a great story later.

Now, the big moment for me — finally meeting some of the Louder Than War team in person. Reviews editor, Wayne Carey, who I’ve bantered with for years but never actually swapped spit with. And also Iain Key, radio DJ and published author (no less!) - check out his book ‘All The Young Punks - A People’s History of The Clash’ - there’s a great story of when I, as a 13 year old met The Clash.

And let me just say — we are lovely people sharing the love of music - it’s what makes us tick.

Was also good to reacquaint myself with the tireless and mighty John Robb and equally mighty Nigel Carr.

Getting to the festival was a long journey - in fact getting anywhere from Bangor in the north west of Wales is a long journey. I took Tim and Michael along for the ride. Four-hour round trip. 

I had to collect them from their respective tiny Welsh villages — which, I’m fairly certain, are not actually on maps but exist more as a concept. You have to pass through some kind of unofficial checkpoint. Farmers. Pitchforks. Suspicious looks. It’s almost Bandit country… 

Before all that, though, I’d already had a full social morning — breakfast in Bangor with Scott from Holy Coves. And I’d say “frontman,” but “fronteverything” feels more accurate — you know, one of those people who is essentially the band, the management, the promoter in human form.

We were both buzzing about their upcoming fourth album, Hiraeth — which, if you don’t know, is basically a Welsh word that perfectly captures nostalgia, longing, and probably how I feel about carbs right now. 

Holy Coves don’t do things by halves. Me, I release an album (3 I think, no 4!) and, with the last two Spam Javelin ones just like, well, put it out there, and sell a few on Bandcamp and a few more at the gigs we play.

Holy Coves do campaigns, proper tours - all that stuff - and get paid! Imagine being paid for doing something you love! Spam Javelin are lucky to get petrol money, and thanks to that MAGA maniac, that petrol money has just halved in value.

Scott asked me what was going on today
‘LTW festival’ I said, so he decided to drive himself to the festival as well. No plan. Just vibes. Respect.

Now — the music.

The lineup was a full-on genre-hopping experience.

You had The Dirt opening bringing this narrated, thumping energy — like being told a story but aggressively, almost like Sleaford Mods, but far less annoying and better music - I bought their excellent ‘Monkeypunch' album off them and shared stories of North Wales (everyone needs to visit North Wales at some point in their lives - just not on a Friday afternoon so you clog up the A55).

Then Evil Blizzard — who were, as expected, absolutely filthy in the best possible way. The kind of band where you don’t fully understand what’s happening, but you’re completely on board anyway. Their set was cut short, or they overplayed or something, but it was still a spectacle as always.

And then The DSM IV — who were just… sublime. Proper locked-in, hypnotic, can’t-look-away kind of performance. I find them compelling viewing, Jade’s cool as fuck guitar playing and Guy McKnight’s unpredictable stance.

Those were highlights among highlights, so make sure you check out the festival review which is up there now at louder than war dot com….

And talking of which, let’s turn our attention to the radio show. Because obviously, in between becoming a walking fibre experiment and surviving rural Wales and festivals I also have a weekly broadcast to maintain.

Yes — every Monday night, 10pm. Live.

Which means there’s no editing, no safety net, and absolutely no way to take back anything stupid I say. So, you know… high professionalism all round.

This week we kicked things off with The Dandy Warhols and their version of The Damned’s — Love Song — And then we very quickly did kick off.

INTERCOURSE with their take on Hole’s Violet — which is less a song and more a controlled detonation. Subtlety? Absolutely not.

I try and cram in around 20 songs in that one hour, so most are less than 3mins long, they have to be, I guess this week— a personal highlight was — Mclusky with as a dad. 

Because nothing says “well-rounded playlist” like going from full-throttle hardcore into something that feels like existential commentary wrapped in dry, slightly unhinged Welsh brilliance.

Which, frankly, is a niche I respect.

By the time we hit the end — with bands like The Red Bastards and Dropping Bombs — it felt less like a curated playlist and more like we’d collectively decided to burn it all down… musically speaking.

Which is exactly how it should be - you can hear this episode here.

So yeah — if you like your music loud, slightly confrontational, and with absolutely zero interest in being background noise… Monday nights, 10pm.

Come join.

Or don’t. But you’ll miss out on whatever… and you can always catch up on mixcloud - and while you’re at it, I’ve now put 2hrs aside each week in my erratic walking schedule to listen to Mike Unruly’s Radio Zero show on LTW radio - every Wednesday, and again, on Mixcloud too.

Alright — bonus segment: “things I probably didn’t have time to do, but did anyway.”

So yes — I’ve been back across the A55 again this week, because apparently I now commute for fun and Wales simply isn’t good enough.

Destination: Crosstown Studios in Liverpool, where Crapsons are recording their new album — Sunshine On Keith — which already sounds like either a masterpiece or a cry for help. Possibly both. - in actual fact it’s definitely a masterpiece…

Now, a bit of context — last month I answered the call to join them on guitar after Pete left. And you know that phrase, “if you want something doing, ask a busy person”?

Well. That person is apparently me. And for reasons I still don’t fully understand, I said yes.

So here we are.

This session? Productive and very quick - there was no prattling about with cowbells or flower fairies. I laid down some backing vocals — and when I say backing vocals, I mean three-part harmony/screams and, of course, the essential punk staples: a generous scattering of “fuck offs”

All delivered with absolute professionalism.

And by professionalism, I mean there was a lot of laughing and very little dignity.

First gig’s already lined up too — LoopFest in Shrewsbury in May — so no pressure. Just casually committing to performing in public. Fine. Totally fine.

Now — I also brought Charlie along, he’s a good kid and agreed on the promise of a pizza at Outpost later (the best pizza and the best venue in the world).

There was only one rule.

No farting in the studio.

This was not a suggestion. This was a policy. And I’m pleased to report — he complied. Fully. A triumph of discipline. An historic moment, really.

We stayed overnight in Liverpool and managed to find a cheap but genuinely decent hotel right in the centre. And I’m not exaggerating here — it was called Epic and it actually lived up to the name. Rare for that price. Suspicious, even.

Now, the next morning — and I cannot stress this enough — we witnessed a miracle.

We walked back to the car, parked on Fenwick Street, and I couldn’t find my keys. There was that moment of panic - thinking I had left them in the hotel room, despite doing the obligatory Idiot Check before checking-out.

And then it hit me.

The car had been unlocked all night.
The keys — including my house key — were just… sitting there. On the centre console. On display. Like an invitation. Anyone could’ve got in. Anyone could’ve pressed “Home” on the satnav and just… taken my entire life.

But no.

Nothing. Untouched. Liverpool said, “Not today.”

Honestly — thank you, Jesus. And I don’t even say that lightly anymore.

Which is ironic — because speaking of Jesus…
At some point that same day, a group of far-right lunatics dressed as Christians decided it would be a great idea to march through Liverpool.

Now — I’m no expert — but if you’re going to test a city’s patience, Liverpool is… not the one. And sure enough — they got exactly the reception you’d expect. Let’s just say it did not turn into a peaceful pilgrimage.

Charlie and I, being completely uninterested in getting involved in any of that, made the sensible decision to remove ourselves from the situation entirely. And where did we go?
Ar Cains. Now this — this is culture.

A three-storey building in the Baltic Triangle packed with 40 years of arcade games. All working. All playable. No nostalgia tax. Just pure, unfiltered button-mashing joy. And play we did. For hours.

Because sometimes, the best response to the world — the chaos, the weirdness, the near-miss car thefts and incidental racist street theatre — is to just… go play old video games and forget everything exists for a bit.

So yeah.

That was the week:

• Walked round the Orme

• Went to a festival

• Created a menu

• Walked more than 70000 steps

• recorded an album

• joined a band

• nearly got robbed but didn’t

• accidentally witnessed divine intervention

• avoided a street-level ideological clash

• and spent hours in an arcade like it was 1997

Completely normal behaviour.

Make sure you tune in next time because where else are you going to get mung bean paella, step-count updates, and hardcore punk in the same weekly experience?

Exactly.