Five years before I actually moved to Colwyn Bay, I arrived as a wide-eyed almost-15-year-old about to attend my first proper punk gig without parental supervision. This was serious business. I’d already seen and even met The Jam and The Clash, but those were balcony gigs — observational punk. This was going to be hands-on, down-the-front, getting-elbowed-in-the-kidneys punk. The Damned at Colwyn Bay Pier.
My mates Yosser, Shaun “Cret” Walton and I fought our way to the barrier, planting ourselves within gobbing distance of the support band: Anti-Nowhere League. I even had the tour flyer like some kind of sacred relic. The Damned had their Friday 13th EP coming out, and the League were causing national outrage with their version of Streets of London. It was 20 November 1981, and Colwyn Bay Pier was briefly pretending it was the centre of the musical universe. Motorhead, Siouxsie & The Banshees, Cockney Rejects, Desmond Dekker — all had somehow ended up playing this seaside pier that was held erect by rust and hope.
Being crushed against the barrier watching Anti-Nowhere League’s North Wales debut was, in my teenage brain, a spiritual awakening. Leather, chains, tattoos, biker boots and a very enthusiastic commitment to swearing — it was everything I thought adulthood would be. I decided right there that I would be in a punk band. Punk had been branded onto my heart like a slightly dodgy tattoo you get on holiday.
At the time, I believed every single outrageous story printed in Sounds and NME. Drug orgies. Farmyard animals. On-stage chaos. Backstage chaos. Chaos in the car park. In reality, they were probably perfectly polite blokes who mowed the lawn on Sundays. The fact they’re all still alive strongly suggests fewer livestock were involved than advertised.
I absolutely loved the scandal of them being banned from Top Of The Pops after allegedly fighting the stage manager, and the police seizing their single because of lyrical indecency. But so what! as a teenager, nothing says “great music” like mild moral panic. I remember belting out Streets Of London and a beautifully reworked version of Rock Around The Clock that had undergone what you might call “lyrical enhancement.”
The Damned — my favourite band — were almost overshadowed by all this. I do remember Captain Sensible introducing new bassist Paul Gray by proudly explaining he was better than the previous bassist at sticking carrots up his own arse. It’s strange what the brain chooses to preserve.
After the gig, because it was a pier and therefore an architectural cul-de-sac, we hung around to meet the bands. Dave Vanian cleverly escaped by combing his hair down and strolling past carrying a handbag before anyone clocked it was him. Captain Sensible and Rat Scabies, however, stayed to sign autographs and exchange insults.
The Captain was smoking. I asked for a drag.
“Piss off, have a wank,” he replied warmly.
As the tour bus pulled away, Captain and Rat leaned out of the window, gave the entire crowd the universal wanker gesture and shouted, “Thanks for your money!”
You’re very welcome. Thanks for the night.
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