Not only was youngpunkfan's dad's flat barren and cold, so was the day that greeted us on Saturday, November 8th, 1980. It was also grey and damp, in time honoured South Yorkshire tradition when, clutching our priceless Woolworth's instruments, remarkably still no more scathed than when we left London, Arthur & I attempted to follow youngpunkfan and dad's directions to the bus stop for the station, accompanied by Dan, weighed down by no more than a pair of sticks poking from the pocket of his Generation X emblazoned Lewis leather jacket.
Mission duly accomplished, we alighted at said station. I say 'said', but cannot say, at this latter juncture whether 'twas Rotherham or Sheffield. I can say that we determined that we needed to board our train fairly swiftly, and thus through combined reasons of expediency and shortage of tour support funds, our meagre two hundred pounds' tour support from Albion being long consumed, we were running for the rattler. Being the Saturday before Armistice day, my route was temporarily impeded by a poppy seller. "'Ere - mind out!" I exclaimed, as we collided in what I'd like to say was a cloud of steam from the approaching locomotive we aimed to catch - sadly, being 1980, it was just moist Yorkshire fog hanging on the air. "What's that for?" I added. "Armistice," replied the British Legion chap. "Never mind that," replied I, quick as a flash, "Get out my way or I'll MISS this train!" Boom boom! Well Arthur and I thought it faintly amusing, as did some of the audience, when I was inspired to share it with them later that evening.
It was quite a journey, and merits note for our resourcefulness and determination after in excess of fifty hours on the road, or should I say train, in our case. National Rail inform me that, were I travelling today, I could go directly from Sheffield to Norwich. However, I think we had to change at Crewe, as I'm sure I recall larking about on the platform singing Please Mr Porter in deference to Will Hay. This could conceivably be a combination of failing memory and wishful thinking, but I remain convinced it occurred. Regardless, after about three hours we alighted at Norwich station where on the concourse, whilst looking for information for the onward connection to West Runton, we encountered most of that night's audience, already raring to go, fuelled by cider and what one might term vitesse de vivre. Obviously it didn't take detective skills for us to identify them but, whether they recognised us as I'd like to think, or whether we introduced ourselves, I can't remember. Nonetheless, having made our acquaintance, they were both chuffed to accompany us up the branch line to West Runton, and to show us the way to the gig when we got there.
Now, there were a few explanations for our looking forward to arriving at that gig, discounting the obvious one of unwinding by blagging drinks off the fans after a c. five hour awkward train journey. Foremost was the fact that my fantastic lead guitar player and producer Dick Taylor, lead guitarist of ineffable dirty British R 'n' B pioneers The Pretty Things and founder Rolling Stone, was driving up from London to join us, and bringing with him our large, loud and regular drummer Pete (Manic Esso) Haynes, like Arthur an 'ex-Lurker for life'. (This was a band joke at the time as both Arthur and Esso were attempting to pursue alternative post-Lurker careers, and were daunted at every step, or should I say review, by being dubbed ex-Lurkers. Incidentally, Arthur has been a Lurker again now for over twenty years, whilst Esso is playing with original Lurkers' guitarist Pete Stride and bassist Nigel in the aptly named God's Lonely Men, so Lurkers for life it appears they are.) The only thing that had to be resolved was what Dan's role in the proceedings would be as, much as I'd loved to have had two drummers a la Pink Fairies, there was only one borrowed Splodge drum kit to be abused. How this was resolved and the ensuing chaos it provoked will be revealed in good course. We were also looking forward to seeeing Dick for lots of other reasons: principally that he was and is an amazing guitarist and a dear and loyal friend to us all but also because, at the then princely age of thirty-seven he was like a dad to our young selves, getting us out of trouble as he often did, whilst simultaneously often managing to have a hidden hand in helping us initiate it. (Dick was also a great diplomat, a skill he brought into play after the show that night when the promoter didn't want to hand over the dosh.) At the time Dick's day job was as a delivery driver for Jean Machine, the renowned chain of denim emporia, and I used to drive him mad en route to gigs mocking his unelected elder statesman's role by repeatedly singing the country tune Rock 'n' Roll I Gave You All The Best Years Of My Life. Anyhow, next reason for being over the proverbial moon at seeing Dick was that he'd be in said van and would transport us home - none of us held driving licences in those days - after the gig to warm beds and a heroes' welcome and the accolades that would accompany our exaggerated (or not) tour tales in the local boozer the next day. In the interim, it was to be a long and eventful few hours before we boarded the trusty FUs mobile. Before I proceed to detail said events, let us take a brief detour.
For those of you who haven't read, or have yet to read, Esso's great book God's Lonely Men - ostensibly the story of the Lurkers but in reality a very readable but poignant tale of social exclusion and the demographics of Ickenham, Middlesex from whence The Lurkers hailed, which I myself equate to a kind of English response to Camus' L'Etranger, about displacement and an inability to integrate - I shall recount in brief what happened when we supported fellow Acton punks The Satellites at a Sunday afternoon gig in the Blue Coat Boy at the Angel, Islington a few months after the Splodge tour. In short, The Satellites loyal following had for some time been blessed by the infiltration of some hard core skinhead representatives of the Ealing National Front and it transpired that the Blue Coat Boy was the stronghold of another NF contingent. Esso tells the story in the terms of everyone being desperate to do gigs, but my being so desperate I'd do gigs that no-one else in their right mind would. Least ways, before we could play, let alone The Satellites, the most God awful fight erupted and we fled through the debris of broken glass and furniture to the safety of Dick's trusty van. I have taken this aside as this tale has an amusing and ironic postscript - namely that, when discussing Esso's book with Dick the other year, he reminded me that I'd been delighted on arriving at the venue to find Halfway To Venezuela on the jukebox (an almost unprecedented occurrence) and that, as we'd cast a farewell glance over our fleeing shoulders at the riot that was breaking out, the last thing we'd seen was the ruins of the smashed jukebox and my hit single weaving on its edge, like a punchdrunk marathon runner, through the shards of broken glass.
That was not as irrelevant an aside as it might first appear as we immediately observed that West Runton Pavilion, on the night in question, had a largish skinhead contingent present who were gathered around the then Sounds journalist and champion of the proto Oi Oi movement Garry Bushell. Mr Bushell was then in the process of perfecting the inflammatory inarticulacy that he went onto champion in his later capacity as televison critic for The Sun, an oxymoronic position if ever there was one. On this occasion, whilst he was displaying pride and joy at hanging out with and writing about ourselves and Splodge, we were immediately wary as he seemed all too keen on inciting, if not actually orchestrating, some kind of flare-up to enliven the proceedings and expand his material.
Anyway, back to the dressing room where Esso was offering to stand down from the drum stool for the night as Dan had been playing the tour to date, whether through reasons of deference, personal safety, or just because it would've given him the time to drink more lager, I'm not sure. I'd hazard an educated guess at the latter, as Pete's dear departed brother Dave, also a not insubstantial drinker, had jumped in the van with him, and they probably fancied a night on the lash together. Following a brief exchange and examination of the possible scenarios, chaired by Dick and I, it was determined that Dan would join Dick on lead guitar, in Dan's case one of our spare Woolworths' issue guitars, but wouldn't plug in, as the notes would in fact issue from Dick's guitar!
We duly took the stage, fuelled as usual with ample beer, apart form Dick who remained sober and employed his habitual self preservation strategy of playing his heart out whilst standing in the wings, out of the way of any threatening missiles and/or sputum. Dan took to his new role like a freshly shot duck to water and, as they say, the crowd went wild. The type of wild they went was to throw and gob as much as they could, whilst simultaneously giving us the most appreciative reception of the tour. In the course of all this revelry, a flying beer can struck Dan right on the temple, incurring a large gash, which soon had claret streaming from it. Dear Dick duly abandoned the stage after that number and whisked Dan off to the nearest casualty unit, whilst Art, Esso and I soldiered on for a couple of tunes to what I must say was remarkable acclaim, before we abandoned ship and left the stage to the art school dance cornucopia that was Splodgenessabounds. Instead of quietening down, as we would've expected when Splodge went on, or at least lessening the level of stick they were inflicting, the audience upped the ante, going on to boo Splodge off, when they demonstrated they were less well equipped than us to withstand it.
Whilst we were all cowering in the dressing rooms and the ridiculous Mr Bushell was out the front rubbing his hands in idotic glee at the level of both potential and actual violence, lo and behold, what did we hear but the crowd starting to chant: we want Pus! We recovered from this unheard of adulation and went back on stage. No sooner had the three of us launched into a number than Dick arrived back from the local hospital with Dan, who was proudly displaying a good few fresh stitches in his bonce. They both joined us and I fib not, you should've heard the roar that went up when Dan took up the unamplified Woolys' axe once more. Mr Bushell related the incident thus in the next week's edition of Sounds: '...the crowd decided to respond in strictly bootboy style, upping heckling and missile input to levels intolerable even to Maxwell and after a brief swapping of insults the band trooped off to outrageous chants of "We want Pus".' There you are, dear reader, it was in the paper, so you know it's true! (It is, by the way!) The postscript to this gig is that, only last week, I was directed to a Facebook page commemorating West Runton Pavilion and lo and behold, the chap that threw the offending can owned up in a public forum. Well I have liaised with Dan and I tell you mister middle aged East Anglian punk, you need to be afraid, very afraid...
That, as it happened, turned out to be that as far as the tour was concerned, although we didn't know it at the time. The Sunday and Monday were days off, and on the Tuesday, as luck would have it, Dick had deliveries to make in the area of that night's show, the location of which I can neither recall nor determine via the information super highway. Suffice to say it was somewhere not far from London, and I'm fairly sure North. It was also a bright afternoon, the sun pleasantly warm through the windows of the van as the advance party of Dick and I meandered our way, replete from a very nice lunch in a country tea room that was a haunt of Dick's, to the gig. We soon learned on arrival that it, and the rest of the tour, transpired to be off, at least as far as we were concerned as the PA company were, in the nicest possible way, refusing to work with us due to the high levels of beer, bodily fluids, etc. going in their monitors. When, with Dick by my side exuding tranquility, I duly pointed out that Splodge engendered even more unwanted liquid in their valuable kit than we did, they responded by saying yes, but Splodge paid their bills! As Joey Ramone might've said, hey ho! It was a good lunch anyway, cheers Dick...
There is, dear reader, one final post postscript to this little saga. Namely, that we'd been trying to outdo Splodge in the practical jape and joke department ever since arriving at Manchester, in our own sweet, if meagre attempt to emulate the havoc The Ruts had wrought upon The Damned when the former had supported the latter the year before, all of which is documented elsewhere. To cut to the chase, after speaking to the PA guys, they told me I could speak to Brian Bonklonk, Spodge's aptly named manager and chef de pathetique, to verify the state of play. This I did, and was duly informed, unsurprisingly, that his loyalties lay with Splodge. He put me onto Max, who was faintly and insincerely apologetic. I told him not to worry and that, when he got to their next gig, which was in South Wales, I had a joke for him to tell the audience. Now this was the time during which the renowned Welsh boxer, Johnny Owen, was critically ill in a coma, and there was a dreadful sick joke doing the rounds which went: 'Have you heard the Welsh have changed their national vegetable? It's not the leek anymore, it's Johnny Owen!' Now, I truly never thought that Max'd be mad enough to relay this to a Welsh audience, but I hadn't bargained on Max having been so preoccupied with his dual roles of heavy drinker and newly famous pathetique pioneer, that all other current affairs had passed him by. What actually happened was...Splodge went to Wales, Max told the joke, they had to abort their set in the face of the greatest violence since Plaid Cymru had been burning down holiday cottages a few years earlier (those incidents themselves engendering the joke pastiche gas board slogan: 'Come home to a real fire - buy a cottage in Wales!'), fled in their van, but were chased back to their hotel and on up the motorway in fear of their lives, after their access was barred at their lodgings, by irate bouncers armed with baseball bats. Max has never forgiven me for this and, indeed, was still harping on about it when I saw him last summer at the Auntie Pus London comeback show.
For those of you who haven't read, or have yet to read, Esso's great book God's Lonely Men - ostensibly the story of the Lurkers but in reality a very readable but poignant tale of social exclusion and the demographics of Ickenham, Middlesex from whence The Lurkers hailed, which I myself equate to a kind of English response to Camus' L'Etranger, about displacement and an inability to integrate - I shall recount in brief what happened when we supported fellow Acton punks The Satellites at a Sunday afternoon gig in the Blue Coat Boy at the Angel, Islington a few months after the Splodge tour. In short, The Satellites loyal following had for some time been blessed by the infiltration of some hard core skinhead representatives of the Ealing National Front and it transpired that the Blue Coat Boy was the stronghold of another NF contingent. Esso tells the story in the terms of everyone being desperate to do gigs, but my being so desperate I'd do gigs that no-one else in their right mind would. Least ways, before we could play, let alone The Satellites, the most God awful fight erupted and we fled through the debris of broken glass and furniture to the safety of Dick's trusty van. I have taken this aside as this tale has an amusing and ironic postscript - namely that, when discussing Esso's book with Dick the other year, he reminded me that I'd been delighted on arriving at the venue to find Halfway To Venezuela on the jukebox (an almost unprecedented occurrence) and that, as we'd cast a farewell glance over our fleeing shoulders at the riot that was breaking out, the last thing we'd seen was the ruins of the smashed jukebox and my hit single weaving on its edge, like a punchdrunk marathon runner, through the shards of broken glass.
That was not as irrelevant an aside as it might first appear as we immediately observed that West Runton Pavilion, on the night in question, had a largish skinhead contingent present who were gathered around the then Sounds journalist and champion of the proto Oi Oi movement Garry Bushell. Mr Bushell was then in the process of perfecting the inflammatory inarticulacy that he went onto champion in his later capacity as televison critic for The Sun, an oxymoronic position if ever there was one. On this occasion, whilst he was displaying pride and joy at hanging out with and writing about ourselves and Splodge, we were immediately wary as he seemed all too keen on inciting, if not actually orchestrating, some kind of flare-up to enliven the proceedings and expand his material.
Anyway, back to the dressing room where Esso was offering to stand down from the drum stool for the night as Dan had been playing the tour to date, whether through reasons of deference, personal safety, or just because it would've given him the time to drink more lager, I'm not sure. I'd hazard an educated guess at the latter, as Pete's dear departed brother Dave, also a not insubstantial drinker, had jumped in the van with him, and they probably fancied a night on the lash together. Following a brief exchange and examination of the possible scenarios, chaired by Dick and I, it was determined that Dan would join Dick on lead guitar, in Dan's case one of our spare Woolworths' issue guitars, but wouldn't plug in, as the notes would in fact issue from Dick's guitar!
We duly took the stage, fuelled as usual with ample beer, apart form Dick who remained sober and employed his habitual self preservation strategy of playing his heart out whilst standing in the wings, out of the way of any threatening missiles and/or sputum. Dan took to his new role like a freshly shot duck to water and, as they say, the crowd went wild. The type of wild they went was to throw and gob as much as they could, whilst simultaneously giving us the most appreciative reception of the tour. In the course of all this revelry, a flying beer can struck Dan right on the temple, incurring a large gash, which soon had claret streaming from it. Dear Dick duly abandoned the stage after that number and whisked Dan off to the nearest casualty unit, whilst Art, Esso and I soldiered on for a couple of tunes to what I must say was remarkable acclaim, before we abandoned ship and left the stage to the art school dance cornucopia that was Splodgenessabounds. Instead of quietening down, as we would've expected when Splodge went on, or at least lessening the level of stick they were inflicting, the audience upped the ante, going on to boo Splodge off, when they demonstrated they were less well equipped than us to withstand it.
Whilst we were all cowering in the dressing rooms and the ridiculous Mr Bushell was out the front rubbing his hands in idotic glee at the level of both potential and actual violence, lo and behold, what did we hear but the crowd starting to chant: we want Pus! We recovered from this unheard of adulation and went back on stage. No sooner had the three of us launched into a number than Dick arrived back from the local hospital with Dan, who was proudly displaying a good few fresh stitches in his bonce. They both joined us and I fib not, you should've heard the roar that went up when Dan took up the unamplified Woolys' axe once more. Mr Bushell related the incident thus in the next week's edition of Sounds: '...the crowd decided to respond in strictly bootboy style, upping heckling and missile input to levels intolerable even to Maxwell and after a brief swapping of insults the band trooped off to outrageous chants of "We want Pus".' There you are, dear reader, it was in the paper, so you know it's true! (It is, by the way!) The postscript to this gig is that, only last week, I was directed to a Facebook page commemorating West Runton Pavilion and lo and behold, the chap that threw the offending can owned up in a public forum. Well I have liaised with Dan and I tell you mister middle aged East Anglian punk, you need to be afraid, very afraid...
That, as it happened, turned out to be that as far as the tour was concerned, although we didn't know it at the time. The Sunday and Monday were days off, and on the Tuesday, as luck would have it, Dick had deliveries to make in the area of that night's show, the location of which I can neither recall nor determine via the information super highway. Suffice to say it was somewhere not far from London, and I'm fairly sure North. It was also a bright afternoon, the sun pleasantly warm through the windows of the van as the advance party of Dick and I meandered our way, replete from a very nice lunch in a country tea room that was a haunt of Dick's, to the gig. We soon learned on arrival that it, and the rest of the tour, transpired to be off, at least as far as we were concerned as the PA company were, in the nicest possible way, refusing to work with us due to the high levels of beer, bodily fluids, etc. going in their monitors. When, with Dick by my side exuding tranquility, I duly pointed out that Splodge engendered even more unwanted liquid in their valuable kit than we did, they responded by saying yes, but Splodge paid their bills! As Joey Ramone might've said, hey ho! It was a good lunch anyway, cheers Dick...
There is, dear reader, one final post postscript to this little saga. Namely, that we'd been trying to outdo Splodge in the practical jape and joke department ever since arriving at Manchester, in our own sweet, if meagre attempt to emulate the havoc The Ruts had wrought upon The Damned when the former had supported the latter the year before, all of which is documented elsewhere. To cut to the chase, after speaking to the PA guys, they told me I could speak to Brian Bonklonk, Spodge's aptly named manager and chef de pathetique, to verify the state of play. This I did, and was duly informed, unsurprisingly, that his loyalties lay with Splodge. He put me onto Max, who was faintly and insincerely apologetic. I told him not to worry and that, when he got to their next gig, which was in South Wales, I had a joke for him to tell the audience. Now this was the time during which the renowned Welsh boxer, Johnny Owen, was critically ill in a coma, and there was a dreadful sick joke doing the rounds which went: 'Have you heard the Welsh have changed their national vegetable? It's not the leek anymore, it's Johnny Owen!' Now, I truly never thought that Max'd be mad enough to relay this to a Welsh audience, but I hadn't bargained on Max having been so preoccupied with his dual roles of heavy drinker and newly famous pathetique pioneer, that all other current affairs had passed him by. What actually happened was...Splodge went to Wales, Max told the joke, they had to abort their set in the face of the greatest violence since Plaid Cymru had been burning down holiday cottages a few years earlier (those incidents themselves engendering the joke pastiche gas board slogan: 'Come home to a real fire - buy a cottage in Wales!'), fled in their van, but were chased back to their hotel and on up the motorway in fear of their lives, after their access was barred at their lodgings, by irate bouncers armed with baseball bats. Max has never forgiven me for this and, indeed, was still harping on about it when I saw him last summer at the Auntie Pus London comeback show.
