The Loch Lomond festival & how I DIDN'T play it...

Fast backward to May 1979; I was between Damned tours and my twin careers of punk showbiz and shoplifting were exhibiting their customary low level peaks and troughs. My accommodation career was most definitely in a trough, as I was to all intents and purposes homeless, surviving by what is these days termed sofa surfing (in my case it was more sofa body boarding as I preferred to lie down on my friends' settees, after all I was usually under the influence of heroin and, I if I wished to sleep standing up, could do it without the aid of any furniture.)

One of the most hospitable, genuine, caring friends I prevailed upon at that time was Tommy Crossan (RIP), Damned tour manager, rock 'n' roll travel agent, and the man who unleashed A Flock Of Seagulls on the world with all the ferocity of Hitchcock's The Birds. Tommy lived in a beautiful first floor flat in Colosseum Terrace on Albany Street, Regent's Park, its only down side being that it was virtually opposite Albany Street nick. Tommy always looked after my interests, in a friendly rather than a managerial way, allowing me to share hotel rooms with him on Damned tours to enable me to get some brief nocturnal respite from the torrent of japes, pranks and straightforward abuse I suffered during the days and evenings. We would retire to Tommy's room, get nicely stoned smoking pipes of Tommy's hash, then he'd do the day's books and I'd put my feet up and enjoy my ration of an hour a day's relaxation.  Tommy was a big bear of a man with a black beard and large tinted spectacles, who'd come to London from Glasgow amidst the tidal Southbound emigration of roadies from East Kilbride that occurred in the early to mid' 70s, and I miss him...

Anyway, back to Thursday 24th May '79 and I'm round at Tommy's, skint, with a barely fed 'brer rabbit' on the go and stressing out about a court appearance at Wimbledon for hoisting the following day, when I was worried about bail being rescinded. That day there was an old mucker of Tommy's round at his called Joe Fife; they'd grown up on the same patch, and headed South in the exodus mentioned above, as had another contemporary of theirs named Phil, who'd tour managed The Damned before Tom. Joe said he'd been working for The Skids, then relatively new kids on the punk block, doing TOTP etc. He was full of them and even more so of himself, and said that he was going up to the Loch Lomond festival that weekend where they were billed to appear. Tommy, in a pro-active brainwave, asked Joe when he was heading up over the border, and if he could take me and get me on at the festival, where the aforementioned Phil was also working. Joe insisted that he could and, though wary I agreed in my usual blind outreach for fame, adventure, sanctuary and any combination thereof. One reason for my wariness was that Tommy, who was looking out for me, wouldn't be there, and that Phil and I had never really hit it off, especially after I'd been violently sick in the tour bus in Paris the preceding November, on the first night of The Doomed tour, after copious amounts of whisky and morphine, en route from one hotel to another in the early hours, after being summarily evicted from the first, and prior to being just as summarily evicted from the second a few hours later. I also explained to Joe that our departure would have to wait until I'd answered bail at court the following morning. Joe checked which court, and then promised to come and speak for me, kind of as a prospective reliable employer, to (supposedly) ensure I got continued bail, making me warier still. However, Tommy convinced me that it was a good idea, and we made some plans: Joe would meet me at Wimbledon Magistrates Court in the morning and then we'd get the night train from Euston to Glasgow. Joe then arranged to borrow a car off yet another old chum of theirs to get us on to Loch Lomond; meanwhile Tommy rang his mum in East Kilbride and told her to expect us for breakfast, introducing me in advance and telling her that I needed 'feeding up.' 

The next morning I arrive at court looking as respectable as I could, bearing in mind the homeless circumstances, and there's Joe, crumpled denim jacket with the collar turned up and shades on, looking like he'd gone out of his way to look as disreputably rock 'n' roll as possible! When my turn in the dock duly came, Joe endeavoured to speak on my behalf but between myself and the beak, we managed to shut him up, and my bail was duly granted. My next task was to explain to Joe that I was modelled firmly in the Johnny Thunders mould, and inveigle him into taking me straight to my dealers' house in Teddington and paying for me to get 'sorted out'. After some bargaining he paid for about half as much gear as I'd need to scrape through the weekend, most of which I took on the spot. The night train journey to Glasgow therefore passed in a warm glow and my sense of adventure won over my misgivings. Around 5am on the Saturday, we arrived in a cab at Tommy's mum's, where she was up, expecting us and all ready to cook us one of the best breakfasts I've ever eaten, replete with traditional Scottish square sausages. She apologised, quite unnecessarily, for Tommy's dad, who was on the settee, still snoring off last night's heavy. Joe got on their phone and arranged to pick up the motor we were borrowing locally, and soon after we set off for the Highlands. Despite the altitude rising, it was all downhill from then on...

We arrived at the festival, where Phil and his chums doing the security and staging seemed no more pleased to see Joe than they did me, and it was a battle even to get in and get some 'access some areas' passes, let alone organise for me to do a short set before The Skids. My visions of doing a Skids tour after the forthcoming Damned one was over duly flew out the proverbial window. The nearest we got to the stage was the artistes' tent backstage where I had a few drinks with Paula Yates, the Boomtown Rats also being on the bill, and a strange, tall, Nordic looking blonde fellow with appalling acne scarring who supposedly worked for Paul Macartney's Wings. I don't recall seeing any bands live at all and, on looking the festival up, am scandalised to see that also on the bill were Dr Feelgood - by then featuring Gypie Mayo in lieu of Wilko - and the UK Subs: what I wouldn't have given to have either seen the Feelgoods then, or had a couple of beers with my old South London compatriot Charlie Harper, or better still both.

By late evening, the heroin was no longer coursing through my veins, Joe was running out of funds, and the Scottish weather had taken a decided turn for the worse. Needless to say, Joe hadn't arranged any luxury camping accommodation, and I begged the car keys off him, went and located the vehicle, started the engine, turned all the heating up to full and managed to get a couple of hours very uncomfortable kip, before being awoken in the early hours by a kind fellow who pointed out I could die of carbon monoxide poisoning if I didn't switch the engine off. Soon after that, Joe arrived back at the car and kipped in the back, but not before I had told him I'd had enough and negotiated that it was only fair that he drove me back to Glasgow and bought me a ticket back to London in the morning.

It was a long and far less cosy train journey home than going up, and what seemed like an even longer journey by tube and suburban rail back to the dealers' in Teddington, where I just made it before they retired for the night. In order to score, I had to regale them, sheepishly, with the saga of the fiasco in which I'd just taken part, and that, dear reader, is the tale of how Auntie Pus DIDN'T play Loch Lomond Festival 1979.