22 Pints etc. Chapter 2 - The North Without Hatfield

Well...we duly arrived in Manchester, famished and craving alcohol, chips, fame and the chance of (self) exposure (in that order). Having located the gig and hooked in with the Splodge troupe, we swerved the soundcheck - it would've made precious little difference as we'd had no rehearsals and weren't playing our own instruments anyway, Arthur having procured (also for safety's sake, see Part 1) the loan of Colin Gould's faintly serviceable but inexpensive bass guitar - and we found a nearby B & B where, as self-elected tour manager, I booked us in for the night. 

We returned to the gig - Manchester Polytechnic, where I recall the wall of the student union where we played was appropriately emblazoned with a larger than life version of Dennis The Menace - and drank as much as possible by blagging, ligging, poncing off the punters and endeavouring to share Splodge's rider, not an easy task as there were about eight of them and about enough alcohol for a respectable punk trio.  We duly knocked a rudimentary rockin' punk set out without too much ado, a little bit of flying sputum and the odd missile but nothing unexpected, and half swaggered, half staggered back to the aforementioned B & B, fairly faintly drunk and even more faintly elated, having successfully elicited that evening's paltry £50 fee. Dear Dan, now a much more seasoned tour veteran than myself, had at that time never been on tour but had been regaled by Arthur, Rat, myself and others with tales of on tour demolition, carnage, etc. On entering the landlady's lounge, we collapsed exhausted into her armchairs and in ran her large hound, which was as 'faintly' friendly as we were 'faintly' drunk. As soon as her back was turned, Danny gave the poor beast a good punk kick on its rump with his size eleven Doctor Marten boot, necessitating the use of my not inconsiderable placatory negotiating skills to enable us to stay the night there, once the dog's howl alerted the landlady to what had occurred. I can't remember what I said to the woman, but the fact that we were still on the premises the next morning means I would've put Kofi Annan to shame!

Talking of knocking things out i.e. our set, the only other incident of note was when Arthur was caught by the chambermaid in the morning in flagrante but hardly delicto, as it was only with a magazine, and not a groupie! We then ate as much inclusive breakfast as possible for the combined reasons of hangover hunger and economy, then Arthur hit upon the novel idea - probably to deflect attention from the aforementioned J Arthur incident - of trying to launch Dan into the Guinness Book of Records by challenging him to brush his teeth continuously for one hour for the princely bet of £2! I am still laughing now remembering Dan asking, in a muffled voice thorugh a mouthful of Colgate foam, how long was left, as Art & I loked at our watches and giggled. Dan duly achieved his aim and objective, but informs me that Arthur still owes him the £2! After recovering from this hilarity, we set off for Piccadilly station and the rattler to Sheffield, another Polytechnic gig, where we were shortly to realise why The Damned always said they hated students...whilst it was quite an adventure being on tour with no van and minimal tour support, something told me it was going to be a long night - how right I was...

By the time we reached Sheffield Polytechnic, my body, nerves and brain were crying out for alcohol, not least because I wished to quell the unease about the previous night's B & B having been a luxury we probably couldn't afford again that night. Whilst Charlie Harper could probably tour the world being accommodated by fans, I wasn't that well connected and was thus suitably apprehensive, as it was even bloody colder oop North than it had been in London. I abandoned Arthur and Dan backstage and set off for the Student Union bar, in search of cheap libation. There I ran into Fred, the Splodge keyboard player, who was a lovely stocky, wacky feller and a good drinking partner. As we stood there chatting and slurping, we were approached by the spokeswomen for the nastiest, most militant bunch of butch man-hating lesbians you ever saw, who told us their mission for the night was to prevent Splodge performing as they had been (unreliably and innacurately) informed that Splodge used strippers as part of their routine, which they perceived as degrading women. Bolstered by my peacemaking achievements the previous day, and backed by Fred, I tried to both reason with them and point out they had been misinformed. This went down about as well as a porterhouse steak in a vegan restaurant, and the feminists let us know that, if we were intent on proceeding with the show, they remained just as intent on stopping it.

Fred and I gave up the verbal battle and went back to the dressing room, where I informed the lads of the physical battle that was doubtless about to ensue. Arthur was just as incensed as I was, if not more so, when I told him of the 'demo'. "Right," he said, "that's it!" By the time we took the boards, we'd had a fair few and Arthur had (a) stripped down to T-shirt, Y-fronts and Doctor Martens and (b) found a dog-eared copy of Playboy or a similar publication (probably the same one he'd been reading that morning when rudely interrupted by the chambermaid) which he could blatantly leaf through as we walked on. The 'ladies' were all grouped down the front in battle formation and heavily armed with e.g. cut glass ashtrays. I strode up to the mike and announced: "Good evening! I'm sorry we're a little late coming on, but I had to pop home and untie the wife so she could get on with the ironing!" Within a few seconds we knew how the Hungarians must've felt when the tanks rolled in in '56 and, within a couple of numbers, so much beer had been thrown along with the accompanying glasses and ashtrays that the stage was awash, causing Arthur to slide ungraciously to the deck mid-song where he just lay there, battered, bruised and drunk, but also cleverly realising that most of the missiles were now flying over, not at him. Dan of course had the kit for protection although, bless him, he did intervene by coming out from behind it and winding the lovely girls up further. 

Somehow we escaped without serious injury and retired backstage to locate the young punk fan who'd kindly told us earlier that we could stay round his house for the night. It soon transpired that he'd left out one vital piece of information, namely that he resided not in Sheffield, but about eight miles away (I'd always thought it was in Bradford but modern technology tells me that's about thirty-two miles away so, after consulting Arthur, I think it must have been in nearer-by Rotherham). Well, after about an hour and a half's route march through the icy Yorkshire night carrying bags and instruments - our young fan, bless him helped out - all four of us were completely sober and ravenous, so the dear young chap took us to a local late night curry house where we were the only non-Asian customers, and where we ate one of the best, cheapest curries I've ever had outside India, or come to that even Tooting! Feeling a whole lot, well slightly, better we walked the last couple of miles to the young feller-me-lad's mama's house, where she wasn't too pleased to see him at what was by then about 2am and even less pleased to see us, his new punk heroes, swiftly informing him that no, we couldn't stay there for the night. 

"Don't worry," said youngpunkfan, "my dad will definitely let you all kip there." 

"Great," said I, "is it far?"

"About a couple of miles," said youngpunkfan.

Our hearts sank, but we had precious little choice, and off we set. His dad, it turned out, liked his music too, and was quite honoured to have us, apologising for having only a couple of tins of beer that we could all share, and eager to tell and show us how he'd helped his son paint his punk leather jacket up with the names of his favourite bands. The flat was cold and barren but youngpunkfan and dad were as hospitable as theycould be, and I remain eternally grateful. In the morning we put some funds in to purchase some food and all cooked and ate some breakfast together, before being pointed in the direction of the station and trains to Norwich (for West Runton and its well known Pavilion), a tortuous journey by train, even in these days of online info, but a proper minefield back then...

22 Pints Of Lager & Fuck The Crisps 

The Hitherto Untold Story of Auntie Pus on the Splodgenessabounds Tour - November 1980

Chapter 1 - The run-up...

Well...mid 1980 saw me out of prison and on the run, but not really running or hiding very hard, as I was gigging as much as possible and blagging as much press as possible, which usually - plus ca change, ha ha - amounted to not enough. Even The Damned were finding it hard to find a slot for my compering expertise and The Ruts, post Malcolm Owen's tragic R 'n' R demise, were mid-metamorphosis into Ruts DC which was engaging our shared manager, Andy Dayman's efforts more than I was; John Dummer had yet to step into the breach, leaving me to fend for myself. This had led to what might now be termed social networking, but was then just a bloody good night or two out on the lash in the Thomas A'Beckett in the Old Kent Road, haunt of various doubtful semi-retired boxers and their cohorts and a punk pathetique stronghold, where Splodgenessabounds often played, and where I went to hear them with Ruts Foxy & Segs et al. It didn't take much to establish that Max, Baby Greensleeves & I were singing from the same defaced, sacreligious hymn sheet and, after some high level business discussions with Splodge manager Brian Bonklonk, it was agreed that Auntie Pus, plus the rudimentary Men From Uncle, would support Splodge at their forthcoming pathetique festival at Camden's Electric Ballroom in August. 

There were about eight bands programmed and advertised, of which we weren't one! The first band on were Peter & The Test Tube Babies, who appeared to have a strong nazi following - there was lots of sieg heiling and other unfortunate behaviour down the front, and I left the safety of the dressing room, accompanied by Arthur and Esso, to meet and greet with John Peel, a long time Lurkers fan, and the only man to play Halfway To Venezuela on national radio. Before leaving the dressing room, I'd posed for one of my most R 'n R shots ever with Dick Taylor, taken by Virginia Turbot (yes that was her real name, though Max couldn't have dreamed up a better one for the hapless Sounds photographer sent on this unfortunate errand!) I had an all star band that night featuring not only ex-Lurkers for life Arthur and Esso, but three, yes three, hot hot hot lead guitar players, namely Robin Bibi, Mark Sullivan and Dick Taylor, all of whom bravely withstood the hail of abuse and missiles generated when we took the stage as special guests before Splodge, and I dragged the intro to the set opener of Riot In Cell Block No. 9 out for minutes, whilst mincing up and down the stage smoking a Senior Service a la Lee Brilleaux (least that's what I thought!), apart from dear Dick, who always ensured to have a long enough guitar lead to enable him to retreat to the wings whilst still playing when such stick ensued. I then further antagonised the skins by posing the question: "Who is this Hitler chap? I thought he was a decorator!" We survived for most of our set before Segs and Foxy ran on stage and debagged me, leading to my unceremonious removal from the stage by big, bad, unpersonable bruiser Steve English, on behalf of promoter John Curd, who reinforced my eviction saying: "You'll never work in London again," or words to that effect. (Sorry John, but you were wrong!)

God knows how, but following this unparalleled success, and after even higher level business talks with Mr Bonklonk, it was subsequently determined that we would support Splodge on their scheduled upcoming UK tour, at an agreed nightly fee of £50. Things were looking up, or that's what I thought...

Well, the first step was not so much to recruit the band, but to see who was (a) available to waltz off on tour at rather short notice, it now being November and the tour due to start any day, and (b) who was prepared to do it after the Electric Ballroom debacle. I soon narrowed it down by establishing that Arthur was the only regular Man From Uncle available, so realised that I needed to recruit a drummer, at least for the first two dates, which were on a Thursday and Friday, until Dick Taylor could herd the rest of the troops into the old faithful Jean Machine (FUs - how appropriate) van and join us. After yet more high level discussions, mainly in the Tabard pub by Turnham Green tube - but no auditions - Arthur and I selected Danny Heatley, then drumming for West Acton punk pioneers The Satellites, and soon to go on to play for, inter alia, The Exploited, Boothill Foot Tappers and Shane Macgowan & The Popes. (Well, Dan, I think we gave you a good grounding in on tour havoc.) 

There was, however, one slight snag in that Danny wasn't technically available at all, as he had a day job in the CBS record pressing plant in North Acton, a job where he did about three movements all day at a machine, and which he was only too eager to leave. However he resided at home with his mum, and she was far less eager for Dan to leave his not-so-steady job. Dan's dad is the great Spike Heatley, probably the most revered British jazz double bass player, and at that time not so long divorced from Dan's mum Viv, whose actual words when Dan proposed to leave his job and set off on tour were something like: "I've heard all this before - it was the same with your dad - he had a perfectly good, secure job in the Johnny Dankworth Orchestra, but oh no, he had to jack it in to do his own thing!" After placating Mrs Heatley by acting grown-up and responsible (yes, dear reader you may well laugh) and agreeing to pay Dan's housekeeping contribution for the length of the tour - three days as it turned out, and I probably still owe her - the triumvirate of temporary Men From Uncle was cemented.

The next step was to drum up some tour support money from somewhere, as I had no job, no money, and no record company, discounting my own one, Septic Records, of which I was and am the sole director and which, then and now had no funds whatsoever in its coffers. Then...Arthur had a brainwave - we'd go to Dai Davies and Derek Savage at Albion Records, to whom Arthur had been signed with his recently disbanded outfit Pinpoint and was about to fulfil the last couple of years of his deal by forming the gloriously named Lucky Saddles (with Dan Heatley on drums)...we'd point out that Halfway To Venezuela had recently been awarded Single Of The Week in Sounds music paper (a near, but thankfully not so narrowly avoided, minor payola scandal involving my journalist chum Mick Wall), that it was riding high in the semi-fictitious Oi Oi Charts in same rag, and that we had this not to be missed opportunity to ride high on the pathetique bandwagon. Arthur duly rang up Dai & Derek and arranged a meeting; so off we hopped the next morning, Wednesday 5th November 1980 (how appropriate, once again) up to Oxford Street on the jolly old Oxo cube for a little meeting. We went into the Albion boardroom, plotted up round the table, and put a copy of Halfway To Venezuela on it. Dai responded by picking it up and tossing it frisbee style over into the waste paper bin, then they asked us what we wanted. We both started to speak at once, then after prompting I shut up and let Arthur do most of the talking, as he had their respect, and it was through that that we stood any chance at all of leaving the premises with any ackers.

Now we really were into high level business discussions...after some twenty minutes or so they'd bargained me into selling them the publishing on the two tracks on the single for £200 advance on a rotten deal (80%/20% or thereabouts), and then haggled still further to get me to throw another two tracks in. This didn't hurt much, as it was all quite academic, manager No. 1 David Scott already being the owner of all of 'em! It appeared that it would take 24 hours to draw up the necessary paperwork, and release the cash, so it was determined that we would return the next morning to sign the deal and cop the bunce, making it a trifle tight for time, as we were due in Manchester for the opening date of the tour that evening. Arthur & I then hopped on the tube back to Turnham Green to meet with Dan and share the good news; I would say tell him to pack his kit, ha ha, except that the deal was we'd use all Splodge's gear so he didn't need to, in fact I'm not sure he even took his own sticks...still, as you'll find out if you keep reading, stick was something we were not going to find in short supply. After getting very and suitably drunk to celebrate we walked merrily home on what was a bitter early winter night.

At that time I was lodging with my friend Mick O'Dwyer and his mum locally in Bedford Park. Now, following my beloved Gibson having had its headstock split (and subsequently beautifully repaired by my dear pal Johnny Bennett over on Wimbledon Common), the advice was not to take it on the Splodge tour at any cost, so I'd asked Mick if I could borrow his. Mick wasn't really a guitarist but was the owner of a Woolworths solid guitar, remarkably similar, if not identical, to the one the Damned had bought me on tour the preceding year when the Gibson was damaged (Captain Sensible's clever way of avoiding me using any of his guitars, least of all his lovely Gibson Firebird), and christened the Puscaster. When I got in that night, and stumbled into our shared bedroom, always a perilous task as it was cluttered with discarded motorcycle parts, I found Mick's guitar on my bed, tied up with a ribbon, and with the words Puscaster Mk II emblazened in permanent marker on the headstock - Mick and our other good pal Colin Gould (both 999 crew stalwarts) had done this for me, and I was suitably touched.

The following morning the three of us set off early for our appointment at Albion. Arthur & I had appalling hangovers, it was even more bitterly cold, and we were sardined into the rush hour tube carriage...I remember Arthur wearing a very heavy tweed coat and some ridiculous, tiny wire rimmed sunglasses, the former to counteract the cold and the latter the hangover...we duly collected our £200 and passed Go - next stop Manchester!