The Duncan Anthology
In June 1979, I was fourteen years old and looking for something to fill the space between going to school and standing outside the Carleton Road off licence mooning over girls who wouldn’t go out with me. It was easy then, for that musical satanism and despoiler of virgins, punk rock, to worm its way into my existence.
Though punk’s origins were in the U.S of the 60’s, it was 1976 before the first ripples were felt in England’s trendy south. The following year, shock waves were felt up and down the land as the provinces came under the spell of this alleged musical menace.
The media hype surrounding punk was very effective in shocking the uninitiated and played on the public’s fear of anything remotely left field. Images of wild eyed nihilists rattling on about ‘no future’ and Her Madge being a moron if you will, were designed to shock and as such, fulfilled their intention. All this during the Queen’s Silver Jubilee year; it just wasn’t British.
With trepidation then, I, musical novice and girly virgin, hurled myself into the punk fray following an invitation from my school chum and Carleton Road neighbour, Richard ‘Dick’ Battye. Asked to attend a Friday night rehearsal by his dodgy punk combo, The Springs, I feared the worst, but after the first couple of songs…it hit me! Tonight I was experiencing a rock and roll epiphany!....…Paying homage to a brand new religion!.....….The gospel according to Goz Anarchy!.....
Turning up at The Springs ahem, basement rehearsal studio (under Dick’s house), I was introduced to the band members.
Vocals duties were split between pint sized best pals Gozil Anarchy and Dave ‘Blue Suede’ Plues. Goz modelled himself on Johnny Rotten and he looked a bit like him as well except he was only 5ft 1. His real name was Leslie Wright, but from the moment I met him it never occurred to me to call him anything but Goz.
Dave Plues was Goz’s best mate and a right ‘Bez’. In later years, he made the front page of shit sheet The Sun, after naming his first child ‘Blue Suede’ (changed shortly afterwards to ‘Tony’ when his bird, perhaps understandably, objected).
Nobby Parker-Bowles was the Springs bass guitarist.
Lead guitarist Howard Kettle, was a one-time member of justly obscure drug rockers Psychedelia and Carleton’s foremost Beatles fan.
Rhythm guitar duties fell to the evening’s host Dick ‘Ray Dio’ Battye. A novice guitarist, he would soon educate me in the fine art of drumming (“You just him ‘em, like!”). Tonight though, he played the lead guitar bit on the Buzzcocks ‘ESP’ (Der der der der der der der der der der der etc) and bestowed my sidesplitting punk name, ‘Baz Turd’.
Anyone with the foresight to ask my opinion of The Springs, following this occasion would have heard me reply:
“I thought they were brilliant, they only knew three songs and they didn’t have a drummer, but they were great. They played ‘Anarchy’, ‘ESP’ and one of their own called ‘Weirdism’. They were dead exciting and I really wanted to be part of it all”.
I became involved more quickly than I could have hoped. Days after the rehearsal, Goz and Dave quit, claiming The Springs ‘weren’t punk enough’, leaving the group in urgent need of a singer. Despite having the vocal talent of a toilet brush, following a perfunctory interview, I was hired. (Spring No 1: “Can you sing?” Me: “No”. Spring No 2: “You’ll do then”).
Or would I? Shortly after stepping into Goz and Dave’s dinky little pixie boots (remember those, pop kids?), I was summarily fired and replaced by sexy punk wannabe, Debbie ‘Soozie’ Moxon, who fancied herself as a bit of a chanteuse. No way was my sacking related to my fellow Springs all intent on giving her one; she was, in fact, a remarkable vocal talent. Oh yes she was.
The Springs made few live appearances (Carleton Rugby Club on July 7 1979, the only one of note), nor did they live on the frontline (with top reggae artiste Eddy Grant) in breaking down musical barriers. Still, many were shocked to see the band put on ice following Dick and Nobby’s defection to local legends, The Thrust.
Bereft of drummer and bass player, after splitting with multi-limbed drummer/bass thing Richard Turpin, The Thrust claimed to be employing Dick and Nobby merely in a session capacity until more permanent members could be found. But, ever eager to enhance their punk credentials (and invent the drum ‘n’ bass genre in the process, thanks lads), the rhythmic duo soon revealed their true loyalties when they announced a permanent transfer.
The Thrust were Pontefract’s ultimate punk band. Which probably isn’t saying a lot, but I was impressed.
Largely devoid of musical talent, they were renowned for the correct we don’t care attitude of the time and more importantly, for modelling the correct width of trouser. Their motto, proudly displayed on their official group blazers (supplied by Albert Lee of Ropergate) was, ‘Flares are for squares (man)!’’
The Thrust’s leader was Featherstone guitar hero Michael ‘Mick’ Griffiths, who displayed suspicious ‘Mod’ leanings. Why, with his ‘Northern Soul Classics’ box set, Lambretta GP 150 scooter and sizeable collection of Rickenbackers, local music fans wondered which side of the musical fence the enigmatic Griffiths was really on! “Are you a mod or are you a punk?” many people asked; Mick of course, would only smile enigmatically. Retrospectively, some commentators have suggested, that in an early clue to the new direction, Mick was a closet New Romantic. This however, is untrue: New Romantics weren’t slated to appear for at least another twelve months.
Lead singer ‘Postman Pete’ Simpson was The Thrust’s other core member. A heavy drinker and a right scruffy git, everyone thought Pete was really punk. With girlfriend Judy, Pete was a seminal figure on the local punk scene even though Racey were his favourite band. Ooh baby lay your love on me indeed!
Christmas ’79, I acquired my first set of drums, a twelfth hand, five piece Olympic kit; bought from some dodgy Ferrybridge geezer on the recommendation of ex-Spring Goz Anarchy.
Moving quickly, I drafted in Howard on guitar, vocalist Goz and covered the bass thing with newcomer Ian ‘Bill’ Bailey. Highly regarded, both for his jinner bonce and deep voice, Ian (and his voice) appeared in the 1977 Guinness Book of Records (Yorkshire edition) as the ‘Deepest Deep Thing in the Whole Wide World’.
This was The Virgin Prostitutes, whose sole live appearance was at Carleton Youth Club supporting The Thrust. Not much fun; a lack of transport forced us to cart our equipment on the bus and then, as we hit the opening chords of our epic four song set, the late Stefan ‘Stef’ Cropper displayed astute musical taste by shooting at us with his air pistol. A good judge!
When my dad heard we were called The Virgin Prostitutes, he went potty and banned us from rehearsing in his cellar until the name was changed. Unsurprisingly, his mood failed to improve when he came across some discarded Goz lyrics referring to ‘taking drugs and screwing chicks, like’.
Goz Anarchy: Spokesbloke for a generation and let’s not be coy, the Kurt Cobain of his day. Apart from the suicide bit.
Later that week, Goz and I clashed furiously at Carleton Youth Club. Goz had secured a booking for The Virgin Prostitutes at local entertainment mecca, Burton Salmon Church Hall: sadly though, I had other plans for the evening. Following a brief but violent struggle in the youth club foyer, a distraught Goz quit, signalling the end of The Virgin Prostitutes.
Holding firm, Howard, Ian and I resurrected The Springs, trading on the, ahem, goodwill attached to the name. We invited Tony ‘Magnum’ Glover and his sexy moustache to fill the vocal chair left vacant by Goz but this good idea at the time was somewhat misguided. The minute he opened his gob, Tony proved unable to carry a tune even when we supplied him with a giant sized bucket. By God, he was woeful. His moustache however, performed an appealing selection of Broadway tunes but sadly lacked the necessary stage presence.
The ‘new’ Springs got no further than a few half hearted rehearsals but did produce the brilliant ‘Anti-Social’ tape with Howard on vocals. Recorded live in me dad’s cellar, this seminal recording is still a favourite amongst fans of the ‘Christ, Is someone murdering a cat (or what?)’ genre.
Following our recent row, Goz and I renewed acquaintances and reformed the Virgin Prostitutes. That particular name having proved too controversial, we agreed to appear under the banner of ‘The Futile Attempts’. The ‘new’ band played a number of shows (the number being 2) in Castleford’s punk heartland of Hightown, frequently bragging “at least our songs have got proper endings”. This was a scathing reference to The Thrust, who had no idea how to end a song together even though we bought them ‘The Bumper Book of Ending Songs Together’ for Christmas that year.
With our taunts ringing in their ears, a major rift developed between The Futiles and The Thrust, which was exacerbated by Mick Griffiths refusal to pay for repairs on Howard’s guitar amp after blowing a speaker, the tight arsed Featherstone bastard.
Ultimately, The Thrust seized the moral punk high ground when they released their self financed E.P., ‘Screams By Goz’ (A sly reference to our moonlighting singer’s screams on the record, the savvy media whore). ‘Screams by Goz’ sold a massive 57 copies (all the band had large families) even receiving airplay on John Peel’s Radio 1 screamathon following Postman Pete’s threat to fire bomb the station if it wasn’t A-listed. Devastated, The Futile Attempts conceded defeat in the Great Punk Rock War of 1980 and packed it in.
Whilst making a mark on the local punk scene, I had simultaneously formulated top secret plans for a mod supergroup with my school chum Richard ‘Ric’ Nye (of Aketon) and his fab mate Paul ‘Paul’ Banfield (of Castleford).
On first meeting Paul, I’d mistaken him for a practitioner of the love that dare not speak it’s name (Oo-er missus, sounds a bit rude, etc.) but this was far from the truth. Pissed off by his parents’ recent divorce, Paul found solace in his dream of pop stardom. His yearning for musical success led to the purchase of a cheap bass guitar from Graham ‘You’ll hear more about me later’ Thomas. From the same source came an amp that even to my untrained eye, looked like a front loading washing machine sprayed black. The amp sounded dreadfully lo fi, but happily for Paul, his underwear was always whiter than white!
Ric Nye spent the entire final year of high school assuring me that he wanted to be a pop star but, as events proved, he was merely biding his time until university and secret agent derring-do. Initially fancying himself as a singer songwriter in the James Taylor mould, as the fledgling band took flight (ooh, such command of language), he was content with his role as lead singer and rhythm guitarist.
To complete the line up, it was necessary to acquire a vaguely competent lead guitarist and we found just the chap in Andrew ‘Vaguely Competent’ Ham of Thorpe Audlin. Hammy was another school pal and one time heart throb in local heroes The Icons, hit makers with ‘I.C.I. (Inter City Intercourse)’.
Taking our cue from the ‘Blimey, that didn’t last long, did it?’ mod revival, we Christened ourselves ‘The Sergeants’, having rejected The Strickenbackers, The Junior Jam, and Duncy’s Midnight Runners.
From the outset, image was more important than any nascent musical ability. Following Saturday afternoon rehearsals, we would parade through Pontefract Town Centre, toting guitars and drumsticks and showing out as if we were Herman and his bleedin’ Hermits in a groovy sixties pop film.
And who knows? Maybe we were.
In the fashion stakes, The Sergeants were feelin’ hot hot hot! With our screamingly trendy Jam shoes, ‘Dollar’ stretch jeans and army surplus jackets (just like Sting!), we were so hip and cool that even today, if you check the word ‘trendy’ in any reputable dictionary, you won’t find any written definition, just a photo’ of The Sergeants, circa ‘81.
We made our debut at Gordon Street Youth Club, Featherstone, on 14 March 1981, supporting top popsters The Fabtones who featured in their line-up, ex-Springs (and Thrusts), Dick, Ian and Howard. The Fabtones were highly regarded by the local pop elite following the release of The Cellar Tape. Recorded at Normanton’s Woodland Studios with that year’s hot producer, ex-Donkey’s guitarist Neil Ferguson, this four song masterpiece centred on This Certain Love Affair, a little something The Fabtones commissioned me to write as they suffered from a lack of original material.
The Sergeants had only six songs ready for performance, but played with such verve that the Featherstone mod scene (including 1984 Queen of the Mods, Julie ‘Girl’ Hickman), took us to it’s collective heart. Every song ripped the joint with the exception of You Left, a soppy, ‘Where’s me handbag’ tune from the pen of Rick ‘I’m reet sensitive, I am’ Nye.
Conversely, Paul’s first song writing effort, the barnstorming I’ll Be Havin’ Fun, saw our new fans raise the roof (they were actually nicking the lead off it at the time, but what the heck).
Nominal headliners, The Fabtones, were far from fab (and indeed, far from talented) dying on their arse (as we literary types say). The band’s dignity took a final savage blow when they were booed offstage and the Sergeants were forced to resume in order to prevent the notoriously unstable Featherstone pop kids from rioting.
Fabtone Dick’s embarrassment is all too evident in a candid photo taken without his knowledge at the aftershow party at the Robin Hood pub. In shot, we see poor Dick with a right sulk on his finely sculpted chops, the miserable Carleton Road git. A bitter irony perhaps, as Dick would later become a leading member of the Wolverhampton Paparazzi, regularly door stepping such big names as Eddie ‘The Eagle’ Edwards and lesser members of Bucks Fizz.
Paul recalls his own experience of the after show party:
“Aye, I got landed with buying a round; five fucking quid it cost me and that’s when five quid was five quid, not eighty-five new pee like it is today”.
The Sergeants were ecstatic following our successful foray into live performance and the euphoric vibe was still er, vibrating when we made our next appearance at Castleford’s glamorous Centre Eleven Youth Club. By then we’d learnt another chord and the difference was amazing.
Amazingly small that is.
Though we’d experienced early success, not all was tickety boo, or indeed just the job in Sergeantsland. It was inevitable then, that when Rick and I had a handbags at five paces’ duel over seminal Pontefract babe Karen MacDonald, his end was indeed Nye. We attempted to patch up our differences for the band’s sake, but in light of the, as Keith Hudson would have it, situation, something clearly had to give.
See yer later then, Ric mate.
Bandless, Ric enjoyed a brief solo career. Casting himself as a lovelorn balladeer, he enjoyed minor success before must awaying to university and eventually Addis Ababa to be a secret agent
A reconciliation of sorts took place in December 1987 when Rick and I had a bit of a sesh in the Carleton Hotel. The evening was slightly marred however, when he referred to “that tart, Karen MacDonald”.
Despite Ric’s exodus, the crucial three retained the Sergeants brand name. Reduced to a trio, with Paul taking up vocals, the group continued appearing live and developed our classic mod look. Black trousers, black ties and white shirts with R.A.F. stripes sewn on the sleeves (just like Paul Weller!) were the order of the day.
The, if you will, Rickless Sergeants greatest performance was a return trip to the Centre Eleven Youth Club headlining a weekend rock festival (Live Aid).
The three piece format worked okay given our lack of musical proficiency, but in truth, we needed a good lead guitarist: Hammy was fine as a rhythm player but couldn’t hack lead. That said, I’ve never heard anyone play the lead line on Dizzy Miss Lizzy any better.
To fill the gap occasioned by The Exodus of Rick (as it is referred to in the annals of local pop history), we drafted long haired git and ‘Whitesnake fan, Michael ‘Mick’ Wakefield from the minors. A comparatively expert guitarist, Mick took over on lead, leaving Hammy free to ‘concentrate’ on his rhythm playing. I’d known Mick since we were kids and had taught him his first guitar chord (the finger breaking E Minor). Since then, he’d improved a bit and if we could persuade him to cut his girly hair he’d be the man (parted down the middle and hanging limply at each side a la John Lennon 1969, very trendy these days apparently).
The new line up began rehearsals but Mick and Hammy decided they didn’t like each other: something to do with alleged local virgin Jane Hitler (not her real name). A week later, Hammy announced his departure. (“Bloody hell Mick! Did you have to tell him you’d shagged her?”).
The strife torn band (Hmm, seems to be a recurring pattern, this strife business – Readers Voice) continued to rehearse, although never reaching live performance standard.
One drunken Tuesday evening in The Malt Shovel, Paul and I could be found sinking large amounts of rock and roll mouthwash and in deep conversation with Dean ‘Dalesy’ Dales of Featherstone. Finding that Dean knew three whole chords and wasn’t averse to getting his round in (generally with someone else’s money), we invited him to join the band.
Shortly after Dean’s arrival, we were again hit by internal warfare (Hmm, seems to be a, etc…). The row this time between Paul and Mick who regularly clashed over musical direction.
In an interview in 1995, I asked Mick where the problem lay: “Paul insisted that we play ‘Apache’ by the bleedin’ Shadows and I refused, so we had a bit of a row. Paul said to me “Fuck off then”, so I said “No, you fuck off”, and he said “No, you fuck off” so I said “Fuck off, I will then”.
Given right of reply, Paul said: “Yup, sounds about right”.
Mick was gone but would one day return.
A three piece again (We are The Jam! We are The Jam! We are, we are, we are The Jam!), we took to rehearsing at Featherstone’s B and S Club under the kindly gaze of corrupt concert secretary, Charlie (possibly his real name). “Ah yer right lads, just give us a few quid a week for me beer money, er, I mean for the electricity, yes that’s right, the electricity” was the kindly old cove’s catch phrase.
We swiftly built a large repertoire of three chord Play in a Day tunes including a sublime rendition of the controversial Apache and my own awe-inspiring attack on the Shirelles/Beatles classic, Boys. Such was our momentum that the excellence of our first three way composition, Hey Girl (Whadda You Say) would see it become something of a Yorkshire mod standard. No really, come back!
Our first and arguably best performance was at Pontefract’s Blackmoor Head pub er, Concert Arena. Naughty little tinkers that we were, we blew totally shite head liners Dik Dik Dimorphic off stage, just as we had The Fabtones a year previously. With dynamic songs like a turbo charged Twist and Shout, it was hard not to.
It was after this performance that we were introduced to our first mentor, Brian Williams of Station Lane, Featherstone. Brian was famous around Featherstone for his drinking partnership with best mate ‘Dodgy Jed’ and the amazing matching jumpers they chose to wear when out together. Brian was an encouraging voice. An ex professional himself (though professional what, no one ever found out) and the owner of a lovely Austin Princess, he took a genuine interest in us, but would ultimately fall by the wayside. Probably after being on the receiving end of our guffaws when he got the worst perm this side of Harpo Marx. Whilst he was around however he provided hope, encouragement and the occasional spare bed for me and Paul whenever our late night drinking went on too late.
Influenced by Dean, a closet Flock of Seagulls fan, we phased out the mod look, though not before creating banner headlines with our politically incorrect Union Jack stage garb. Simultaneously we experimented with some really poor band names including New Action Ltd and Jinx. Under the latter, Paul and Dean performed a percussionless version of rubbishy Beatles song Get Back at Thornwick Bay Holiday Camp’s weekly talent night. Sadly, they were beaten into second place by a man who played the spoons whilst walking with his left leg in the gutter. Or summat.
Flamborough’s Thornwick Bay resort looms large in the Sergeants legend. Booked to appear by camp (as in holiday camp) entertainment manager Cyril Poole, father of the semi-legendary Poole family, ‘The Bay’, as we never called it, soon became our spiritual Hamburg.
We had developed our craft through the time honoured battleground of the youth club stage, whilst simultaneously playing third on the bill to the meat tray raffle and bingo at local working men’s clubs. Thornwick Bay however, saw us change beyond recognition and pick up a healthy female following. Possibly with ideas above our station, we had professional photographs taken by Manchester photo ace Arthur Waite, dressed up in our Duran Duran clobber. These were sold to misguided young lassies at a quid a time.
For a time we rehearsed with sexy female backing singers, Tracey and Crystal, who we chanced upon one evening at Featherstone’s Green Lane Club. Their singing ability was negligible but as they were apt to wear see-through blouses (leaving little to our feverish teenage imaginations), we were loathe to dispense with their services. Ultimately, the girls moved on to form their own hot group, The Tracey and Crystal Chandelier.
Our well-drilled stage performances were creating waves on the local scene and combined with an enviable off stage camaraderie, we were an attractive prospect for any budding entrepreneur. Enter the svengali like Graham ‘Colonel Tom Parker’ Thomas.
Graham remember, was the man responsible for flogging Paul a second hand washing machine cunningly sprayed black in order to convince him that he’d bought a bass amp.
Heavily connected with nightclub sensations ‘Arrival’, Graham was a songwriter of no little ability; in fact, no ability at all. He did however, make pots of money (three pounds twenty, they were very small pots), when failed British tennis person, Jo Durie, recorded his song Wimbledon Lawns. His other claim to fame was a one off appearance on telly playing keyboards for David Essex. His appearance gave new meaning to the words ‘star quality’. And lack thereof
Graham swiftly muscled his way into the group as keyboard player with the occasional flourish on rhythm guitar and vocals. Whilst a welcome musical addition, his onstage comedy was a dead loss.
‘There you have it’ and ‘Strapadicktome’.
Yes, sadly these were his catchphrases.
A collective weak will and Graham’s seniority (he was fifty-eight years older than us) gave him license to take over from within, almost turning us into a comedy showgroup in the process. It was only our mod roots that prevented us from falling into this deathless abyss. But hey, it wasn’t all bad news; Graham’s age and experience added some much-needed professionalism to the band and he knew how to drum up paying gigs.
Reverting to our original name, ‘The Sergeants’, we made our initial Graham-led appearance at the Oldham Batteries Club in Cheshire .
Live performance had become a regular event and as such, we developed a highly professional attitude to match. Hang on, hang on, lying bastard: Highly professional attitude, my arse. We were the slackest slack things in the world. We rehearsed once a flood, we were always late for gigs and oh crikey, in a ‘Yoko’ scenario, Dean would bring along his lovely mates in the back of the van so he had someone to drink with.
Our rise continued through the mid ‘80’s, but there was a definite downside. Friends of the band like Andy ‘Hammy’ Ham, who hadn’t seen us for a while, would laugh at us and say: “You’re okay, but get rid of that smarmy git Graham, he sounds like he should be on Radio 1”.
As if heeding this message, come Christmas ’85, Graham quit the band to concentrate on ‘managing’ our career and running (down) his own burgeoning P.A. business.
An extensive search was quickly underway to find a high quality replacement, but ultimately, we settled for Vaughan ‘V.D.’ Darbishire of Allerton Bywater. (An ad was placed in the Pontefract and Castleford Express and he was the only one to answer bar a late application from some eighteen stone hippy, an expert triangle player. Ding!) Vaughan was a fair keyboardist and the owner of a very nice Bontempi home organ. He had little previous band experience and ultimately it was his performance in the 1975 production of the hit musical ‘Mame’ at Castleford Civic Centre (for which he won the ‘Best Kid With A Daft Haircut’ Toby award), that convinced us he was the man for the job. It certainly made all the difference between him and the fat hippy triangle player!
Vaughan and Graham played with each other (ho ho!) over the Christmas period until Vaughan got in the swing. Deadly Affairre, as we were now known, were ready to rock (or at least ponce around the stage a bit).
The ensuing months saw our dreams of rock stardom come true. Extensive tours of South Wales and the North East of England, along with the media’s constant clamour for interviews (they liked us down at the Pont and Cas) combined to make us the biggest musical sensation Pontefract had ever known. At one stage we were even slated for a photo session with Bailey! (Sadly it was local wedding photographer Dennis Bailey, rather than the more illustrious David).
Ah, but these were trying times. Despite fame, fortune and everything that goes with it (I thank you all), we were still forced to cope with unscrupulous promoters, long, long hours and Dean’s medical problem (flatulence).
More seriously, the band split into two camps. In Camp One were the hedonists, Dean and Vaughan. Camp Two was home to the boring bastards, me and Paul. Paul had married his girlfriend Joanne the year before (as opposed to his lawn mower, also called Joanne), while things had recently become ‘heavy man’ between myself and local teenager Angela Telford. Paul and I were content with our pipe and slippers life style whereas Dean and Vaughan took full advantage of their celebrity status, pursuing every opportunity to ahem, assert their manhood.
Actually, I wish I had now.
While it’s fair to say that Paul and I enjoyed a night on the town, we were never as keen as the other two, having been domesticated by our lady loves. It was this situation that brought the two factions to regular blows over life, love and the whole damn thing.
On a more positive note, the ‘Deds’ had built a large and loyal following around the North of England: indeed some of our more die hard fans were known to travel distances of some fifty yards to see us in concert.
If the club circuit was our bread and butter, then sticking with the food analogy, the icing on the cake was our regular appearances at Rooftop Gardens in Wakefield. ‘Roofies’ as we sickeningly called it, was the grooviest entertainment complex in the North of Ingerland (with the possible exception of Kikos, ha ha!) and the place we felt most at home. It’s fair to say that as The Cavern was to The Beatles, Rooftop Gardens was to Deadly Affairre. Initially contracted to play an occasional fill-in show, we quickly became a regular attraction. I loved the place so much that in October ’86, I talked Angela into moving with me to fashionable (amongst slum landlords, at least) Westfield Grove, just outside Wakefield City Centre so I could take full advantage of the ‘Ten Pence A Pint’ special offer on Monday nights.
A split then occurred in the relationship between Paul and I. For reasons unfathomable, our views on everything had become diametrically opposed. (But what really pissed me off and made me want to kick the little twat around the room was when he would noodle away on his crappy acoustic for hours on end playing the same crappy tune. Bastard!).
Such was the mutual rancour, that for long periods our relationship became one of professional convenience; only occasionally did a semblance of friendship reappear. Paul admitted as much in 1988 when he said, “There was just so much tension”.
Deadly Affairre’s career highlight was a recording session at Pennine Studios, Oldham. Between the hectic live schedule, we found time to record two rather good songs: You and I written by manager Graham Thomas and Make sure she needs you there written by erm, erm, no sorry, can’t remember. I suggested recording the Sergeants mod classic Hey Girl (Whadda You Say) or even Karen Is So Lovely (But Dunc’s A Total Twat), a heart wrenching number from the pen of Ric ‘Remember me folks, I was the bloke who left a few pages back’ Nye. Then I was reminded (rather rudely, I thought: after all, I was a STAR!) that the sessions were being financed by Graham and his special friend, night club mogul Adrian Bargearse and I was lucky to be there at all.
The Deds were augmented on the session by Mike Timoney, keyboard wiz with chart toppers China Crisis, while Graham’s talented wife Angela contributed vocal harmonies. The songs stand today as examples of superior pop music. Okay, it may not be The Beatles, but then, it’s not Milli Vanilli either. It has since been suggested that had we had competent management, a major record deal would have been but a drum beat away.
Or maybe we were just crap.
Despite an intense round of personal appearances (Southey Social Club, Denaby Main WMC, the usual shitholes), there were marks all over our bodies where people had pushed us away with bargepoles.
With no record contract forthcoming, the master tape of these seminal recordings was allowed to languish in the Pennine vault until early 2000 when I oversaw a limited edition CD release for the collectors market.
Finding ourselves at the Crossroads (but sadly without Benny or Miss Diane), we severed ties with Graham. Signing an exclusive management contract with Artist Management (Doncaster) Ltd, we took to utilising the expert guidance of company president Bill, who had such a lasting influence on me that I can’t remember his surname.
We tentatively rehearsed with singer/guitarist and ‘Emmerdale Farm’ extra Jon Stryke (known to his mum as Ian Brownless!). Expansion to a quintet was a definite option until Paul, perhaps fearing the competition engendered by a second lead singer, put his foot down. (Or could it be that Mr Stryke had all the stage prescence of a tone-deaf bar stool?).
The constant live schedule exacted a terrible toll shortly after Jon Stryke had done his dash. The big chill occurred during rehearsals for our forthcoming Deds Hit The Pub in ‘85 tour when so-called best pals Dean and Vaughan, got into a vicious brawl over ownership of the band’s mascara. Such was the rancour over the disputed cosmetic that just hours later, Vaughan quit, citing personal differences with Dean. (Although he did send us a really nice ‘Good Luck Lads’ card along with his best wishes for a successful Deds Hit The Pub in ’85 tour).
To replace Vaughan we contacted our old mucker Mick Wakefield, who after many bitter and twisted Apache-less years had finally come to terms with the horror of his earlier dismissal from The Sergeants. We were fortunate to sign him as it was only in recent weeks that he’d disbanded Station To Station, his own popular country and new romantic group and was in demand in 3 counties (Unpaid parking fines, the most likely explanation).
In hindsight, Mick did far more than replace Vaughan in the Deds; as a singer, keyboard player and guitarist of great skill, he added a whole new dimension to the band.
Coinciding with Mick’s return was the horrific discovery by Paul and I that our top best buddy Dean had taken up creative accounting. Very special friend Dean, the man ahem, responsible for the band finances, had stitched us up like a kipper, guv. Bills hadn’t been paid in months and court summonses began to arrive daily at our luxury pop star mansions. As we soon discovered, Dean had used the majority of our earnings to finance his champagne lifestyle. When confronted with the smokin’ gun, Dean’s response was a hearty ‘Fuck you arseholes, I’m outa here’. Charming.
Legal action was considered along with breaking the bastard’s legs, but ultimately we decided to let his bad karma work on him. After sage legal advice from Jeremy Cook and Michael Horrocks, we devised a financial plan to cope with the morass of debts we had inherited. Then, for the first time, we began to trouser some dosh without dastardly Dean around to pick our pockets.
An aspect of this farrago rarely touched upon in previous Deadly Affairre biographies is the deep emotional impact these events had on Paul and I. Paul had this to say “Thieving bastard”. While I was only slightly more prosaic when I said “Robbing Twat”. The vitriol towards Dean lingered for years afterwards. On my second solo album in 1991, ‘There’s Not Many Shags When You’re a Drummer’ I included a Lennonesque swipe at my erstwhile friend called Where’s The Money Dean?
Where’s the money Dean?
It’s nowhere to be seen
I turned around and you were gone
What did you spend it on?
I thought you were a friend of mine
But you spent my dosh on beer and wine
All along you were a crook
And now you couldn’t give a fig, (you little tinker)
Ironically, Dean’s evil ways brought Paul and I closer as friends, united against a common enemy. With Dean sacked and pursuing new interests (indeed, he soon established a promising career as a gentleman’s hairdresser: Something for the weekend sir!), Mick moved to guitar exclusively and we held auditions for a new ivory tinkler. The chosen one was jobless Airedale ten-year-old, Adrian ‘The Brain’ Field. (cos he acted like a ‘brain’). Yes, Adrian was a plonker, but along with Mick he was ‘instrumental’ (It’s the way I tell ‘em etc) in transforming the newly dubbed Election Day into a strong rockin’ unit. Together with our soundman Steve ‘I’ll shag owt, me’ Holt, we produced some er, real tasty sounds.
Deadly Affairre had been primarily popular with the teenyboppers of this parish, but the ‘Leccies’ were a giant leap forward in musical virtuosity. No really, come back… Noted for our incendiary live shows, many of these loyal supporters still recall our Batley Frontier and Rooftop Gardens residencies where after committing Keith Moon style violence on our equipment, we would murder our go go dancer Ken Mason in cold blood. At this juncture, it was customary for audience members to shout, “Oh my God, they killed Kenny. You bastards”, predating ‘South Park’ by some nine years. Struggling, aren’t I?
As was our wont, no band was complete without internal aggro and it was no surprise when Mick became so incensed with the Brain, that he hung him from the wall by the collar of his overcoat. In a similar vein, the normally mild mannered Paul was frequently seen to give Adrian a good kicking in a moving vehicle. My own amusement was principally derived from aiming an inadequately battened P.A. speaker at the unfortunate lad’s head whilst the van was in motion and then, at the opportune moment, gently squeezing the brakes. Sliiiiiide…...boff! ‘
The Hatred of the Brain’ (as it became known in rock music circles) grew so intense (and yes, childish) that Adrian started crying boo fuckin’ hoo and quit the band following a ‘comical’ attempt to leave him behind after a show in Doncaster. Barnsley keyboard player Dean Turner was hired to replace him but despite the brutal treatment, Adrian returned to the fold for some more good old fashioned rock and roll abuse.
We continued to storm venues up and down England until mid 1988 when tired of the constant touring, I moved to Australia to record my debut solo LP, ‘Drummers Aren’t Fick, Cobber’.
The band struggled on briefly, recruiting Mick’s former sideman Roger ‘Nice Facial Hair Sir!’ Boothman, but he made little impact and quietly departed after a few appearances.
My final performance with Election Day was at some pigeon fancier’s dive in Rotherham; a subdued end to a magnificent musical journey that began one summer night in a Pontefract basement.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Thursday, April 12, 2007
A lil pop song by me and the Banster
Verse 1
I come from a small town
I loved a northern girl
Now she’s movin’ uptown
Leavin’ me to my world
Verse 2
So I’m looking for someone
Who looks a lot like her
Someone strictly small town
To take her place in my world
Chorus 1
(Till then i'm) sittin' in the blue room
Tryn to write a sad so-ong
Givin’ it some madness
Been so messed up now that she's go-on
Chorus 2
Sittin' in the blue room
Lookin' for a happy end
Pickin' up the pace, and
Waiting for this stuff to end
Then into bridge
If she thinks that someone else needs her like me, better forget it
All I know is if she don’t come back, she’ll live to regret it. Yeah
Now I’m sitting in the blue room etc
I come from a small town
I loved a northern girl
Now she’s movin’ uptown
Leavin’ me to my world
Verse 2
So I’m looking for someone
Who looks a lot like her
Someone strictly small town
To take her place in my world
Chorus 1
(Till then i'm) sittin' in the blue room
Tryn to write a sad so-ong
Givin’ it some madness
Been so messed up now that she's go-on
Chorus 2
Sittin' in the blue room
Lookin' for a happy end
Pickin' up the pace, and
Waiting for this stuff to end
Then into bridge
If she thinks that someone else needs her like me, better forget it
All I know is if she don’t come back, she’ll live to regret it. Yeah
Now I’m sitting in the blue room etc
Saturday, April 7, 2007
My sleeve notes for the latest Lonesome Dogs CD
Hi there pop pickers!
You have selected for purchase the brand new platter from Walsall’s most blues wailin’ Lonesome Dogs. Please remember to pay the cashier as you exit the store, otherwise the alarm goes off and well, it all gets a touch embarrassing, doesn’t it? All major credit cards are welcome, but we like luncheon vouchers the best, they’re the toppermost of the poppermost!
Lovely, thanks very much, you’re a grand lad!
If, like me, you’re a long standing fan of the bonnie lads known and loved throughout the Yorkshire Dales as Lonesome Dog Blues Band, you may have noticed that they have lost that bit of their name which identifies them as being solely a card carrying, torch bearing, down home ‘blues’ band.
But fear not, this is nothing to be scared of. There is nothing to fear but fear itself. We will fight them on the beaches. Never have so many etc.
Indeed, I like to think of it as being much the same as when funny-man Freddie Davies dropped his ‘Parrot Face’ comedy nickname in order to enter the legitimate theatre. Didn’t do him any harm, did it?
Which rather begs the question, why have the chaps dropped the ‘blues band’ bit of the name? Do they wish to scale the heights of the hit parade whilst rubbing shoulders with the likes of top ‘rock’ bands Bon Jovi and Lieutenant Pigeon or that nice lad, Bobby Crush?
Why oh why can’t the ungrateful little bleeders be satisfied with the critical acclaim that has come their way since the release of their last effort in 2004, We’re Barking Mad, We Are? which even the legendarily tough Walsall Examiner’s critic, Ayesha Brough, was moved to dub as ‘right up there with Liquid Gold’.
High praise indeed. Not ‘arf!
But hey, as Del Amitri and his mates are always carrying on about 'let's kiss this thing goodbye'. My question to YOU, dear reader is, ‘why are you asking me this stuff?’ I am, after all, only mates with Dickie, the ace Dogs drummist, the man on the traps, if you will.
The fact is, even as I write, quill to hand, here in my Devonshire summer home, my mind is cast fondly back to our salad days together as private school young bucks, where, sap a-rising, public hair a-sprouting, we enrolled in the Boys Brigade and over one memorable summer skinned our hearts and skinned our knees, learned of love and ABC.
We discovered Top Trumps, how to skim stones in the correct manner and, as our firm, young bodies ripened, enjoyed tentative, slightly guilt inducing, yet strangely enjoyable mutual mas…that’s quite enough of your ‘one memorable summer’ recollections - Sleevenote Ed).
Anyway, don’t be expecting me to know the ins and outs of the Walsall blues scene, flipping heck, I’m not that blummin' Steve Gibbons bloke!
Don’t worry, pop pickers, I’m just having a funny joke with you.
I happen to know all the lads right well and they are grand chaps. Indeed, many is the time I have uttered the immortal phrase ‘Can I be a roadie?’ and, gents that they are, they have permitted me and my old dutch to lug their gear round for them in me British racing green’71 Bedford. I may not be bright but by heck, I can lift heavy things!
Seriously, the reason behind the contraction of the group's name by a factor of 50% is, as the album title so subtly hints, that the band are ‘not strictly blues’ these days. Indeed, the recording of this fab disc has seen them fall under the influence of such diverse talents as Kenny Lynch, Jess Conrad and Reg Varney!
So, no doubt you are guaranteed to hear all kinds of great stuff on this disc. I haven’t heard it myself so I can’t really say, but I’m sure it’s very good, because they told me it was. And, when you’ve finished playing it, why not play it again, just to check if it’s as good as you thought it was the first time.
Duncan Massey - sleevenotes a speciality
You have selected for purchase the brand new platter from Walsall’s most blues wailin’ Lonesome Dogs. Please remember to pay the cashier as you exit the store, otherwise the alarm goes off and well, it all gets a touch embarrassing, doesn’t it? All major credit cards are welcome, but we like luncheon vouchers the best, they’re the toppermost of the poppermost!
Lovely, thanks very much, you’re a grand lad!
If, like me, you’re a long standing fan of the bonnie lads known and loved throughout the Yorkshire Dales as Lonesome Dog Blues Band, you may have noticed that they have lost that bit of their name which identifies them as being solely a card carrying, torch bearing, down home ‘blues’ band.
But fear not, this is nothing to be scared of. There is nothing to fear but fear itself. We will fight them on the beaches. Never have so many etc.
Indeed, I like to think of it as being much the same as when funny-man Freddie Davies dropped his ‘Parrot Face’ comedy nickname in order to enter the legitimate theatre. Didn’t do him any harm, did it?
Which rather begs the question, why have the chaps dropped the ‘blues band’ bit of the name? Do they wish to scale the heights of the hit parade whilst rubbing shoulders with the likes of top ‘rock’ bands Bon Jovi and Lieutenant Pigeon or that nice lad, Bobby Crush?
Why oh why can’t the ungrateful little bleeders be satisfied with the critical acclaim that has come their way since the release of their last effort in 2004, We’re Barking Mad, We Are? which even the legendarily tough Walsall Examiner’s critic, Ayesha Brough, was moved to dub as ‘right up there with Liquid Gold’.
High praise indeed. Not ‘arf!
But hey, as Del Amitri and his mates are always carrying on about 'let's kiss this thing goodbye'. My question to YOU, dear reader is, ‘why are you asking me this stuff?’ I am, after all, only mates with Dickie, the ace Dogs drummist, the man on the traps, if you will.
The fact is, even as I write, quill to hand, here in my Devonshire summer home, my mind is cast fondly back to our salad days together as private school young bucks, where, sap a-rising, public hair a-sprouting, we enrolled in the Boys Brigade and over one memorable summer skinned our hearts and skinned our knees, learned of love and ABC.
We discovered Top Trumps, how to skim stones in the correct manner and, as our firm, young bodies ripened, enjoyed tentative, slightly guilt inducing, yet strangely enjoyable mutual mas…that’s quite enough of your ‘one memorable summer’ recollections - Sleevenote Ed).
Anyway, don’t be expecting me to know the ins and outs of the Walsall blues scene, flipping heck, I’m not that blummin' Steve Gibbons bloke!
Don’t worry, pop pickers, I’m just having a funny joke with you.
I happen to know all the lads right well and they are grand chaps. Indeed, many is the time I have uttered the immortal phrase ‘Can I be a roadie?’ and, gents that they are, they have permitted me and my old dutch to lug their gear round for them in me British racing green’71 Bedford. I may not be bright but by heck, I can lift heavy things!
Seriously, the reason behind the contraction of the group's name by a factor of 50% is, as the album title so subtly hints, that the band are ‘not strictly blues’ these days. Indeed, the recording of this fab disc has seen them fall under the influence of such diverse talents as Kenny Lynch, Jess Conrad and Reg Varney!
So, no doubt you are guaranteed to hear all kinds of great stuff on this disc. I haven’t heard it myself so I can’t really say, but I’m sure it’s very good, because they told me it was. And, when you’ve finished playing it, why not play it again, just to check if it’s as good as you thought it was the first time.
Duncan Massey - sleevenotes a speciality
Election Day: The Final Concert
……With guitarist Dean Dales sensationally quitting Deadly Affairre mid tour to pursue a solo career (indeed, he soon developed a promising career as a gents hairstylist: “Something for the weekend sir?”), keyboardist Mick Wakefield took up the lead guitar reins and auditions were held for a new ivory tinkler. The chosen one was jobless Airedale 12 year old, Adrian ‘The Brain’ Field (because he acted like ‘a brain’).
Yes, Adrian was something of a plonker, but along with Mick, he was ‘instrumental’ (it’s the way I tell ‘em etc.) in transforming the newly dubbed Election Day into a fine rockin’ unit. Many commentators, in fact, went so far as to suggest that with the assistance of stud-u-like soundman Steve Holt, the band were now producing some er, real tasty sounds.
Deadly Affairre had been primarily popular with the teenyboppers of this parish; in contrast, the Leccies,, with the skills of the classically trained ‘Brain’ complementing the tasteful lead work of Wakey and all underpinned by the rock solid Massey-Banfield rhythm section, were a huge leap forward in musical virtuosity.
Election Day swiftly built a massive army of fans who thought nothing of travelling up to fifty yards to catch a live appearance. Many of these supporters were in situ at the now legendary Batley Frontier and Rooftop Gardens residencies, where the group celebrated their newly achieved ‘hot’ status by committing Keith Moon style violence on their equipment.
As was their wont, no Sergeants-derived band was complete without internal aggro. Previously this had been the domain of Firebrand Mick and Ice Cool Paul (with Duncan providing the Tapesque luke warm water in the middle). However, with the addition of ‘Brain’ to the ranks, it was open season. No one was surprised then, when Mick, having become so incensed at one of his brain-dead suggestions, hung the ‘Brain’ by the collar of his own ‘vampire cloak’ (don’t ask) on a hook in his garage. In a similar vein, Paul regularly gave him a good kicking (for disciplinary reasons) in a moving vehicle. Duncan’s amusement was principally derived from aiming a P.A. speaker at the unfortunate lad’s head whilst the group’s tour bus was in motion, then, at the opportune moment, gently squeezing the brakes. Sliiiiide….boff….result!
The Hatred of the Brain as it became known in rock circles, grew so intense (and admittedly, childish), that Adrian started crying, boo fuckin’ hoo, and quit following a ‘comical’ attempt to leave him behind after a show in Doncaster. Barnsley keyboard wiz Dean Turner was brought in to replace him, but despite the brutal, nay inhumane, treatment, Adrian returned to the fold for yet more good old-fashioned, rock n roll abuse.
Election Day continued to storm venues the length and breadth of England (no really, come back!), until Duncan, tired of the constant touring, fled to Australia to record his debut solo album Drummers Aren’t Fick, Cobber. The band carried on briefly, with Mick recruiting his former sideman Roger ‘Nice Facial Hair, Sir’ Boothman from experimental Country ‘n’ Gangsta project Station to Station, but his impact was minimal and he quietly departed when Duncan returned for a final series of concerts.
Whilst the music recorded at Garforth Liberal Club on 3 April 1988 has long been dubbed ‘The Final Concert’, that isn’t strictly true. The absolutely very last, no more, Leccies have left the building, so sod off show took place at some pigeon fancier’s dive in Rotherham a few weeks after this date. Rest assured though, that the exciting live show captured here for the first time on CD, represents the ‘real’ last hurrah of a great band……..
Adapted from Fuck Off Adrian: The Election Day Years written by Duncan Massey and published by Sergeants Inc © 2001
Yes, Adrian was something of a plonker, but along with Mick, he was ‘instrumental’ (it’s the way I tell ‘em etc.) in transforming the newly dubbed Election Day into a fine rockin’ unit. Many commentators, in fact, went so far as to suggest that with the assistance of stud-u-like soundman Steve Holt, the band were now producing some er, real tasty sounds.
Deadly Affairre had been primarily popular with the teenyboppers of this parish; in contrast, the Leccies,, with the skills of the classically trained ‘Brain’ complementing the tasteful lead work of Wakey and all underpinned by the rock solid Massey-Banfield rhythm section, were a huge leap forward in musical virtuosity.
Election Day swiftly built a massive army of fans who thought nothing of travelling up to fifty yards to catch a live appearance. Many of these supporters were in situ at the now legendary Batley Frontier and Rooftop Gardens residencies, where the group celebrated their newly achieved ‘hot’ status by committing Keith Moon style violence on their equipment.
As was their wont, no Sergeants-derived band was complete without internal aggro. Previously this had been the domain of Firebrand Mick and Ice Cool Paul (with Duncan providing the Tapesque luke warm water in the middle). However, with the addition of ‘Brain’ to the ranks, it was open season. No one was surprised then, when Mick, having become so incensed at one of his brain-dead suggestions, hung the ‘Brain’ by the collar of his own ‘vampire cloak’ (don’t ask) on a hook in his garage. In a similar vein, Paul regularly gave him a good kicking (for disciplinary reasons) in a moving vehicle. Duncan’s amusement was principally derived from aiming a P.A. speaker at the unfortunate lad’s head whilst the group’s tour bus was in motion, then, at the opportune moment, gently squeezing the brakes. Sliiiiide….boff….result!
The Hatred of the Brain as it became known in rock circles, grew so intense (and admittedly, childish), that Adrian started crying, boo fuckin’ hoo, and quit following a ‘comical’ attempt to leave him behind after a show in Doncaster. Barnsley keyboard wiz Dean Turner was brought in to replace him, but despite the brutal, nay inhumane, treatment, Adrian returned to the fold for yet more good old-fashioned, rock n roll abuse.
Election Day continued to storm venues the length and breadth of England (no really, come back!), until Duncan, tired of the constant touring, fled to Australia to record his debut solo album Drummers Aren’t Fick, Cobber. The band carried on briefly, with Mick recruiting his former sideman Roger ‘Nice Facial Hair, Sir’ Boothman from experimental Country ‘n’ Gangsta project Station to Station, but his impact was minimal and he quietly departed when Duncan returned for a final series of concerts.
Whilst the music recorded at Garforth Liberal Club on 3 April 1988 has long been dubbed ‘The Final Concert’, that isn’t strictly true. The absolutely very last, no more, Leccies have left the building, so sod off show took place at some pigeon fancier’s dive in Rotherham a few weeks after this date. Rest assured though, that the exciting live show captured here for the first time on CD, represents the ‘real’ last hurrah of a great band……..
Adapted from Fuck Off Adrian: The Election Day Years written by Duncan Massey and published by Sergeants Inc © 2001
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
My address to union members December 2005
Greetings everyone.
Thankyou so much for taking the time to come along today.
At the risk of repeating some of what David has already spoken of, I would like to spend a couple of minutes to give you some background to this years EBA negotiations from the union delegate’s point of view.
Because of the Liberals bastardly industrial relations changes, we’ve always been racing against the clock somewhat to deliver an acceptable outcome to you, the members.
The bottom line is that we’ve only had a few short weeks to negotiate a new agreement, before these IR changes kick in, probably early next month.
Now, in that context, I believe we’ve got a pretty good outcome.
As ever, we didn’t get everything we asked for, but we’ve done okay.
There are some who may say we could have pushed a little harder and squeezed a bit more out of the company (and, just as an aside, I would mention that the company are fully aware that none of us here are afraid of a blue, after last year’s strike).
However, while we may have got a little more out of them if we’d pushed a little harder, these people aren’t stupid, and they knew that if we played hardball all they had to do was put off signing a new EBA and just hold out till these shitty new laws were enacted. That way they could screw us good and proper, because under the new laws they won’t be obligated to negotiate an EBA with us. They can do what they like.
It’s my belief that the most important thing we’ve gained from this year’s negotiations is that we still have an EBA that maintains our rights and conditions in the face of the
Liberals all new, all singin’, all dancin’ brave new world of industrial relations.
Once the new laws kick in, there will be many businesses in Tasmania, that won’t even be bound by a basic award (never mind an EBA) to protect the interest of workers and to keep the employer honest.
At this property, not only have we maintained award conditions, but with the EBA we are almost 20% better off than most other hospitality and entertainment venues within Tasmania. This is the EBA that many of us here have fought for over the years, by virtue of our union membership, and our commitment to looking after our rights.
I truly believe that the best thing about the new EBA being put forward for your consideration, is that it gives us some breathing space in which to elect a federal government who are committed to rolling back these shonky new laws.
And I am quite certain that if we fail to do so, next time we won’t be so lucky in getting a collective agreement. When the company believes they can succeed in breaking us down by offering individual contracts, how long do you think it will take them?
When I make a statement like that, it’s not just so I can have a cheap shot at John Howard, as tempting as that may be. No, it’s a genuine heartfelt warning to you that what the Liberals are doing to workers this time is only the beginning of their horrific agenda. Remember, if you tolerate this your children will be next.
In closing then, I would reiterate that in the context of the political times we live in, this EBA is the best outcome we could have hoped for, in that it maintains and in some ways improves upon, what we’ve achieved in previous years. It gives us a solid platform to build on next time around, when, with a bit of luck, we will have voted in a government who are more interested in, and sympathetic to, your rights at work.
God bless and breed you all.
Thankyou so much for taking the time to come along today.
At the risk of repeating some of what David has already spoken of, I would like to spend a couple of minutes to give you some background to this years EBA negotiations from the union delegate’s point of view.
Because of the Liberals bastardly industrial relations changes, we’ve always been racing against the clock somewhat to deliver an acceptable outcome to you, the members.
The bottom line is that we’ve only had a few short weeks to negotiate a new agreement, before these IR changes kick in, probably early next month.
Now, in that context, I believe we’ve got a pretty good outcome.
As ever, we didn’t get everything we asked for, but we’ve done okay.
There are some who may say we could have pushed a little harder and squeezed a bit more out of the company (and, just as an aside, I would mention that the company are fully aware that none of us here are afraid of a blue, after last year’s strike).
However, while we may have got a little more out of them if we’d pushed a little harder, these people aren’t stupid, and they knew that if we played hardball all they had to do was put off signing a new EBA and just hold out till these shitty new laws were enacted. That way they could screw us good and proper, because under the new laws they won’t be obligated to negotiate an EBA with us. They can do what they like.
It’s my belief that the most important thing we’ve gained from this year’s negotiations is that we still have an EBA that maintains our rights and conditions in the face of the
Liberals all new, all singin’, all dancin’ brave new world of industrial relations.
Once the new laws kick in, there will be many businesses in Tasmania, that won’t even be bound by a basic award (never mind an EBA) to protect the interest of workers and to keep the employer honest.
At this property, not only have we maintained award conditions, but with the EBA we are almost 20% better off than most other hospitality and entertainment venues within Tasmania. This is the EBA that many of us here have fought for over the years, by virtue of our union membership, and our commitment to looking after our rights.
I truly believe that the best thing about the new EBA being put forward for your consideration, is that it gives us some breathing space in which to elect a federal government who are committed to rolling back these shonky new laws.
And I am quite certain that if we fail to do so, next time we won’t be so lucky in getting a collective agreement. When the company believes they can succeed in breaking us down by offering individual contracts, how long do you think it will take them?
When I make a statement like that, it’s not just so I can have a cheap shot at John Howard, as tempting as that may be. No, it’s a genuine heartfelt warning to you that what the Liberals are doing to workers this time is only the beginning of their horrific agenda. Remember, if you tolerate this your children will be next.
In closing then, I would reiterate that in the context of the political times we live in, this EBA is the best outcome we could have hoped for, in that it maintains and in some ways improves upon, what we’ve achieved in previous years. It gives us a solid platform to build on next time around, when, with a bit of luck, we will have voted in a government who are more interested in, and sympathetic to, your rights at work.
God bless and breed you all.
Deadly Affairre: The toast of 80's teen Yorkshire
……Dateline 1986: Deadly Affairre appear at Goole Dockers Club having transcended their early Sergeants incarnation to become the North’s favourite teenbeat popsters (apart from the Gents, like).
No better than average musically, the group’s good looks and ahem, sharp dress sense are the key to winning the hearts and minds of the Northern sisterhood.
This notwithstanding, conquering the New Jerseyesque heartland of Yorkshire (and Humberside) is a straightforward matter of digging in and playing the hovels that John West rejects, often for negligible reward, in an effort to become well known. The hard day’s nights pay off and by the time of Goole Dockers, there isn’t a stage capable of taming their exciting stage charisma (it says here).
‘84/’85 are the years that the Deadly Affairre legend is created. They play the biggest rooms, win the hands of the fairest maidens and lay down tracks in the most prestigious studio in Oldham.
Sadly, 1986 will be the Deds last hurrah. Sex symbol keyboard player Vaughan Darbishire quits mid-year, tired of the petty squabbles over the group mascara. He then forges a successful career in pub management, a field in which he excels. These days, he heads up his own leisure consultancy firm VD Inc and does a bit of part time roofing with his dad, Fred.
Guitarist Dean Dales is dramatically fired (or quits, depending on who you believe) shortly after Vaughan hands in his notice. Dean’s misappropriation of group funds having become obvious even to the ever-gullible Duncan and Paul. Perhaps the most damning indictment of his fraudulent ways is the appearance of a smashing new video recorder (with remote control!)in his parent’s lounge, which certainly isn’t paid for out of his dole money. Others recall Paul storming into top Featherstone nite spot, Club Central, to rip out the band’s lighting system, which Dean accidentally sold without telling the band. Once the gravy train leaves town, Dean carves out a living as a gentleman’s hair stylist until a long slide into the deprivations of cocaine hell and incarceration at Her Madge’s pleasure. His current whereabouts remain a mystery. At least to Vaughan who hasn’t seen the robbin’ cunt since foolishly lending him twenty quid in 1991.
Handsome Deds front man Paul Banfield beomes bass player and co-lead singist in popular club turn Election Day, before retiring to skipper a pike fishing boat at Ponty Park lake. At the time of writing, he is rumoured to be reforming his first band, popular mods the Sergeants, with Duncan Massey, Andy Ham and original Sergeants ace face, Ric ‘Slowhand’ Nye…..
Adapted from the book Where’s The Money, Dean? A Deadly Affairre Memoir.
Soon to be a major motion picture starring Nicholas ‘You Plonker,Rodney’ Lyndhurst as Dean
© 2002 Duncan Massey/Sergeants Inc.
RIP Dean Dales 2005. Not so funny now , is it Dunc?
No better than average musically, the group’s good looks and ahem, sharp dress sense are the key to winning the hearts and minds of the Northern sisterhood.
This notwithstanding, conquering the New Jerseyesque heartland of Yorkshire (and Humberside) is a straightforward matter of digging in and playing the hovels that John West rejects, often for negligible reward, in an effort to become well known. The hard day’s nights pay off and by the time of Goole Dockers, there isn’t a stage capable of taming their exciting stage charisma (it says here).
‘84/’85 are the years that the Deadly Affairre legend is created. They play the biggest rooms, win the hands of the fairest maidens and lay down tracks in the most prestigious studio in Oldham.
Sadly, 1986 will be the Deds last hurrah. Sex symbol keyboard player Vaughan Darbishire quits mid-year, tired of the petty squabbles over the group mascara. He then forges a successful career in pub management, a field in which he excels. These days, he heads up his own leisure consultancy firm VD Inc and does a bit of part time roofing with his dad, Fred.
Guitarist Dean Dales is dramatically fired (or quits, depending on who you believe) shortly after Vaughan hands in his notice. Dean’s misappropriation of group funds having become obvious even to the ever-gullible Duncan and Paul. Perhaps the most damning indictment of his fraudulent ways is the appearance of a smashing new video recorder (with remote control!)in his parent’s lounge, which certainly isn’t paid for out of his dole money. Others recall Paul storming into top Featherstone nite spot, Club Central, to rip out the band’s lighting system, which Dean accidentally sold without telling the band. Once the gravy train leaves town, Dean carves out a living as a gentleman’s hair stylist until a long slide into the deprivations of cocaine hell and incarceration at Her Madge’s pleasure. His current whereabouts remain a mystery. At least to Vaughan who hasn’t seen the robbin’ cunt since foolishly lending him twenty quid in 1991.
Handsome Deds front man Paul Banfield beomes bass player and co-lead singist in popular club turn Election Day, before retiring to skipper a pike fishing boat at Ponty Park lake. At the time of writing, he is rumoured to be reforming his first band, popular mods the Sergeants, with Duncan Massey, Andy Ham and original Sergeants ace face, Ric ‘Slowhand’ Nye…..
Adapted from the book Where’s The Money, Dean? A Deadly Affairre Memoir.
Soon to be a major motion picture starring Nicholas ‘You Plonker,Rodney’ Lyndhurst as Dean
© 2002 Duncan Massey/Sergeants Inc.
RIP Dean Dales 2005. Not so funny now , is it Dunc?
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Short story: The Master's Apprentice
The Master’s Apprentice
Paul Daley’s a middlin’ salmon living in a quiet little Yorkshire pond called Cragmount.
A bit of a star round town, those who don’t know him give him the nod down the supermarket or in the post office, cos they think they recognise him. They’re not sure how, but they know the face, they think.
Sunday nights, Paul sings and plays guitar at the Crown Inn in Tasman Street. This is where folk’ve seen him. It’s Entertainment Central in Cragmount is the Crown; the only game in town.
He’s no great shakes muso, but he’s keen, enthusiastic: possessor of a fair whack of natural charisma, too. Enough, so that when some wanker heckles as the bum notes fly like beer bottles, he can shut ‘em up without causing a fracas with B.A. Barracus.
Not that he’s too fussed: the gig only pays 30 quid and beer, but then, he wants to keep his good looks a while longer and they’re a tough mob in the Crown.
During the week he works as a driver’s mate on a Barrington Ales lorry.
It pays the rent.
Doesn’t satisfy his musical urges though, so when Steve, the driver, does the Dales run every Thursday, he pulls over for five minutes while Paul blasts his mouth organ over the open fields. Scares the crap out of the sheep but Steve enjoys it.
Paul does four spots in the Crown, Sundays. Starts early doors, 6.30, to kick the place into gear; spaces the other sets through the night when things need a lift.
Sunday’s his big night of the week, then. Usually it’s just him, an amped-up acoustic and backing tapes on the half moon stage in the corner of the tap room. Which is about as thrillin’ as it sounds, but he goes down okay.
The big time hits on those Sundays, every six weeks or so, when Micky Castle and Rick Lane, bassist and drummer in Broken Hands join him on stage and really set the place kickin’.
Broken Hands are the local dudes that made it: Hit the bigs, they have. They’re not rich yet, but they might have a shot if they keep up the initial oomph.
See, they signed this half-arsed two single deal last year with Fabtone, a backyard op in Leeds.
Then their manager, Bob Calvert, is at a La’s reunion gig and sees Radio One‘s Yorkshire hipster Dave Ecstatic. Shoves a copy of Broken Hands first Fabtone single at him and next thing ‘Commissionaire’s Sunglasses’ is a Number 37 smasheroonie. Big time!
Poached from Fabtone by JMCC, a much bigger label, they follow up with the top five ‘Time is Never Wasted (When You’re Wasted All the Time)’ and now they’re a week away from recording their first album.
Paul Daley was in awe of Mick and Rick at high school.
Even then, they were celebs in waiting; playing the school disco every three months, always a posse of chicks hanging off ‘em it seemed. They were two or three years older than Paul then; still are come to that, so it’s no surprise they didn’t hook up with him till more recently.
Rick and Mick, (or Mick and Rick, take your pick, as the hilarious joke in the NME goes), are the two out of Broken Hands who still spend any amount of time in Cragmount. The others moved straight to London as soon as the record company advance came through.
The occasional trio arrangement comes about when M and R get home to Craggy one Sunday following a Turin Brakes support slot at Leeds Uni.
Still jazzed from the gig and not yet ready for kip, they take a walk down the Crown where they used to do the Sunday night slot before fame beckoned.
They get a couple of pints in this particular night and sit down in time to see Paul give ‘Twist and Shout’ some serious humpty.
Diggin’ what they hear, with Paul’s assent, they get up to add some backing vocal and heavy tambourine on Paul’s traditional encore (He wasn’t gonna tell ‘em ‘no’, was he? These are serious rock stars, man!).
Presto! A partnership of sorts. It won’t replace Broken Hands for Mick and Rick, but it’s a change just to have a laugh these days. All the bleedin’ seriousness that’s crept into the day job drives ‘em mad.
Back live. Tonight’s a Mick and Rick night, the first for a while.
In their honour, landlord Rob Woodhouse has put up his regular comedy banner over the front entrance: ‘Tonight, live on stage’ (it reads), ‘Mick and Rick from top local pop group Broken Hands with guest vocalist Paul Daley’.
Brain dead, thinks Paul, eyeing the sign as he walks in at twenty past six.
He sketches a salute towards Tracey, Rob’s missus, behind the bar as he makes his way to the stage.
There’s a few punters standing round but it’s not sardines like it will be later.
Paul takes his coat off to reveal his regular stage clobber. Tartan I’m a lumberjack and a member of the Socialist Workers Party if you don’t mind work shirt, jeans, heavy work boots. Got a serious Springsteen thing goin’ on.
He perches on a stool at the edge of the stage, nudges up the mic volume on the house P.A. with the headstock of his guitar, leans into the mic and says quietly:
“Evenin’ Cragmount, I’m Paul Daley. Lovely darts”.
Launches into a gentle ‘Midnight Hour’. He’ll play it again later with Mick and Rick and it’ll be faster! Louder! More happenin’! Now he does it as a slow blues, paces himself, enjoys the moment.
The night’s young, like.
The crowd builds up. Paul plays a crackin’ six minute ‘Gloria’. Does his pretend John Lee Hooker growl in the middle cos the crowd gets off on it.
One of his own next, ‘Black Sheets of Rain’; bit depressing maybe, but fuck it. Introduces it: “I’ve suffered for my music, now it’s your turn”.
Does a couple of Merseybeat toons, then finishes with the next Broken Hands single, ‘Same Shit, Different Day’. Mick showed him the chords last week, only four of them. No one here’s heard it yet, so Paul gives the song a plug, getting it in the crowd subconscious. By the time it’s on the radio, so his theory goes, all the locals will think “Hmm, sounds familiar, top tune, must buy it!”
There’s a bass amp and two piece drum kit on stage, all ready for Mick and Rick. Half eight they come bouncin’ in. Bit cocky these days, bit of attitude about ‘em. Just back from a happenin’ session at Radio Aire.
Mick plugs in his Fender Strat bass, Rick gets behind the kiddie-sized kit and Paul straps on his black Hondo brand, Les Paul copy that he bought off his mate Andy Ham for thirty quid.
“Evenin’, once again” says Paul. “Like to introduce a coupla friends of us all. Big welcome, thankyou please, for Mick Castle and Rick Lane, lovely chaps they are. No, really”.
There’s a cheer, an ironic wolf whistle and some twat shouts, ‘wanker’.
On the four, BANG! And they rip the cord on the big version of ‘Midnight Hour’. Follow on with a rockin’ catalogue of play in a day 60’s fave raves.
They storm the room. Fuckin’ storm it! Always do. No one’s dancin anymore, there’s no room. Lotta foot stompin’ and big applause though, ‘specially when they have a go at the first two Broken Hands singles.
Paul notices his girlfriend Kathy come in the pub with her sister and make for the bar.
He’s been seeing her for a year and lately she’s been making engagement ring noises. Fuck that for a lark. Loves her though, he’s a romantic.
As the lads finish giving ‘Substitute’ a damn good kicking, he steps up to the mic: “Ladies, gents and them what’s undecided, this next ‘un were recorded by Buddy Holly before he died. Wun’t ‘ave been after, would it? This is for Kathy”.
Starts into Words of Love. Glances over at the bar, Kathy’s gone bright red. Smiling though, cos she’s a romantic. Just like him.
Paul Daley’s a middlin’ salmon living in a quiet little Yorkshire pond called Cragmount.
A bit of a star round town, those who don’t know him give him the nod down the supermarket or in the post office, cos they think they recognise him. They’re not sure how, but they know the face, they think.
Sunday nights, Paul sings and plays guitar at the Crown Inn in Tasman Street. This is where folk’ve seen him. It’s Entertainment Central in Cragmount is the Crown; the only game in town.
He’s no great shakes muso, but he’s keen, enthusiastic: possessor of a fair whack of natural charisma, too. Enough, so that when some wanker heckles as the bum notes fly like beer bottles, he can shut ‘em up without causing a fracas with B.A. Barracus.
Not that he’s too fussed: the gig only pays 30 quid and beer, but then, he wants to keep his good looks a while longer and they’re a tough mob in the Crown.
During the week he works as a driver’s mate on a Barrington Ales lorry.
It pays the rent.
Doesn’t satisfy his musical urges though, so when Steve, the driver, does the Dales run every Thursday, he pulls over for five minutes while Paul blasts his mouth organ over the open fields. Scares the crap out of the sheep but Steve enjoys it.
Paul does four spots in the Crown, Sundays. Starts early doors, 6.30, to kick the place into gear; spaces the other sets through the night when things need a lift.
Sunday’s his big night of the week, then. Usually it’s just him, an amped-up acoustic and backing tapes on the half moon stage in the corner of the tap room. Which is about as thrillin’ as it sounds, but he goes down okay.
The big time hits on those Sundays, every six weeks or so, when Micky Castle and Rick Lane, bassist and drummer in Broken Hands join him on stage and really set the place kickin’.
Broken Hands are the local dudes that made it: Hit the bigs, they have. They’re not rich yet, but they might have a shot if they keep up the initial oomph.
See, they signed this half-arsed two single deal last year with Fabtone, a backyard op in Leeds.
Then their manager, Bob Calvert, is at a La’s reunion gig and sees Radio One‘s Yorkshire hipster Dave Ecstatic. Shoves a copy of Broken Hands first Fabtone single at him and next thing ‘Commissionaire’s Sunglasses’ is a Number 37 smasheroonie. Big time!
Poached from Fabtone by JMCC, a much bigger label, they follow up with the top five ‘Time is Never Wasted (When You’re Wasted All the Time)’ and now they’re a week away from recording their first album.
Paul Daley was in awe of Mick and Rick at high school.
Even then, they were celebs in waiting; playing the school disco every three months, always a posse of chicks hanging off ‘em it seemed. They were two or three years older than Paul then; still are come to that, so it’s no surprise they didn’t hook up with him till more recently.
Rick and Mick, (or Mick and Rick, take your pick, as the hilarious joke in the NME goes), are the two out of Broken Hands who still spend any amount of time in Cragmount. The others moved straight to London as soon as the record company advance came through.
The occasional trio arrangement comes about when M and R get home to Craggy one Sunday following a Turin Brakes support slot at Leeds Uni.
Still jazzed from the gig and not yet ready for kip, they take a walk down the Crown where they used to do the Sunday night slot before fame beckoned.
They get a couple of pints in this particular night and sit down in time to see Paul give ‘Twist and Shout’ some serious humpty.
Diggin’ what they hear, with Paul’s assent, they get up to add some backing vocal and heavy tambourine on Paul’s traditional encore (He wasn’t gonna tell ‘em ‘no’, was he? These are serious rock stars, man!).
Presto! A partnership of sorts. It won’t replace Broken Hands for Mick and Rick, but it’s a change just to have a laugh these days. All the bleedin’ seriousness that’s crept into the day job drives ‘em mad.
Back live. Tonight’s a Mick and Rick night, the first for a while.
In their honour, landlord Rob Woodhouse has put up his regular comedy banner over the front entrance: ‘Tonight, live on stage’ (it reads), ‘Mick and Rick from top local pop group Broken Hands with guest vocalist Paul Daley’.
Brain dead, thinks Paul, eyeing the sign as he walks in at twenty past six.
He sketches a salute towards Tracey, Rob’s missus, behind the bar as he makes his way to the stage.
There’s a few punters standing round but it’s not sardines like it will be later.
Paul takes his coat off to reveal his regular stage clobber. Tartan I’m a lumberjack and a member of the Socialist Workers Party if you don’t mind work shirt, jeans, heavy work boots. Got a serious Springsteen thing goin’ on.
He perches on a stool at the edge of the stage, nudges up the mic volume on the house P.A. with the headstock of his guitar, leans into the mic and says quietly:
“Evenin’ Cragmount, I’m Paul Daley. Lovely darts”.
Launches into a gentle ‘Midnight Hour’. He’ll play it again later with Mick and Rick and it’ll be faster! Louder! More happenin’! Now he does it as a slow blues, paces himself, enjoys the moment.
The night’s young, like.
The crowd builds up. Paul plays a crackin’ six minute ‘Gloria’. Does his pretend John Lee Hooker growl in the middle cos the crowd gets off on it.
One of his own next, ‘Black Sheets of Rain’; bit depressing maybe, but fuck it. Introduces it: “I’ve suffered for my music, now it’s your turn”.
Does a couple of Merseybeat toons, then finishes with the next Broken Hands single, ‘Same Shit, Different Day’. Mick showed him the chords last week, only four of them. No one here’s heard it yet, so Paul gives the song a plug, getting it in the crowd subconscious. By the time it’s on the radio, so his theory goes, all the locals will think “Hmm, sounds familiar, top tune, must buy it!”
There’s a bass amp and two piece drum kit on stage, all ready for Mick and Rick. Half eight they come bouncin’ in. Bit cocky these days, bit of attitude about ‘em. Just back from a happenin’ session at Radio Aire.
Mick plugs in his Fender Strat bass, Rick gets behind the kiddie-sized kit and Paul straps on his black Hondo brand, Les Paul copy that he bought off his mate Andy Ham for thirty quid.
“Evenin’, once again” says Paul. “Like to introduce a coupla friends of us all. Big welcome, thankyou please, for Mick Castle and Rick Lane, lovely chaps they are. No, really”.
There’s a cheer, an ironic wolf whistle and some twat shouts, ‘wanker’.
On the four, BANG! And they rip the cord on the big version of ‘Midnight Hour’. Follow on with a rockin’ catalogue of play in a day 60’s fave raves.
They storm the room. Fuckin’ storm it! Always do. No one’s dancin anymore, there’s no room. Lotta foot stompin’ and big applause though, ‘specially when they have a go at the first two Broken Hands singles.
Paul notices his girlfriend Kathy come in the pub with her sister and make for the bar.
He’s been seeing her for a year and lately she’s been making engagement ring noises. Fuck that for a lark. Loves her though, he’s a romantic.
As the lads finish giving ‘Substitute’ a damn good kicking, he steps up to the mic: “Ladies, gents and them what’s undecided, this next ‘un were recorded by Buddy Holly before he died. Wun’t ‘ave been after, would it? This is for Kathy”.
Starts into Words of Love. Glances over at the bar, Kathy’s gone bright red. Smiling though, cos she’s a romantic. Just like him.
a fabulous song from the spike pedestal songbook, co-written with my smashing Kiwi chum, Lord Ric of Nye
Here’s another grey and empty day
Another day to swear at fate
Looking back's an easy thing to do
But I can't look forward without you
So I sit alone in this blue room
Where shadows fall in winter shades of gloom
Why did I think you'd always stay
When all we had together were small town days
Small town days
Small town ways
I hang on to a broken dream
Mining hope in empty seams
Small town days
Funny seeing you today
Innocence all washed away
You tell me that it’s grim up north
No surprises there for what it’s worth
Can’t you take me to some other place
Take me where the air is rare
I would follow anywhere
You and me together in these small town days
Small town days
Small town ways
Remember how we walked for miles
Smoking cigarettes, what style
Small town days
Long time since you’ve been around
A pit stack landscape still but no heavy heavy sound
Of dead end days and factory roar
Gates are welded shut, last shift walked out the door
Still I think back to one halcyon day
When all our working hours were bathed in summer haze
I recall those words I heard you say
That you would rather die than live in small town days
Small town days
Small town ways
I know that you remember them
They’re not so easy to forget
Small town days
Another day to swear at fate
Looking back's an easy thing to do
But I can't look forward without you
So I sit alone in this blue room
Where shadows fall in winter shades of gloom
Why did I think you'd always stay
When all we had together were small town days
Small town days
Small town ways
I hang on to a broken dream
Mining hope in empty seams
Small town days
Funny seeing you today
Innocence all washed away
You tell me that it’s grim up north
No surprises there for what it’s worth
Can’t you take me to some other place
Take me where the air is rare
I would follow anywhere
You and me together in these small town days
Small town days
Small town ways
Remember how we walked for miles
Smoking cigarettes, what style
Small town days
Long time since you’ve been around
A pit stack landscape still but no heavy heavy sound
Of dead end days and factory roar
Gates are welded shut, last shift walked out the door
Still I think back to one halcyon day
When all our working hours were bathed in summer haze
I recall those words I heard you say
That you would rather die than live in small town days
Small town days
Small town ways
I know that you remember them
They’re not so easy to forget
Small town days
I recommend this fabulous new CD. It's really great!
The Sergeants
Rockin’ at the B+S!
1. Danger Games (Price) 2. Get Back (Lennon/McCartney)
3. You Really Got Me/All Day and All of the Night (Davies)
4. Albatross (Green) 5. 2-4-6-8 Motorway (Robinson)
6. Things We Said Today (Lennon/McCartney)
7. In The Midnight Hour (Pickett/Cropper)
8. Glad All Over (Clark/Smith)
9. Get Off My Cloud (Jagger/Richards)
10. Swords of a Thousand Men (Tudor-Pole)
11. I Saw Her Standing There (Lennon/McCartney)
12. My Generation (Townshend) 13. Marie Marie (Stevens)
14. Twist and Shout (Medley/Russell)
15. In The Midnight Hour (Pickett/Cropper)
17. Bye Bye Johnny (Berry) 18. Hi Ho Silver Lining (Control)
Paul Banfield: Bass/Lead Vocal
Dean Dales: Guitar/Backing Vocal
Duncan Massey: Drums/Backing Vocal
Produced by Duncan Massey
2003 Remix Engineer: Rick Marton
Photograph: Sergeants Inc
Recorded electrically live at the B and S Club, Featherstone.
Duncan Massey uses and recommends Pearl Drums.
© 1982/2003/2007 Sergeants Inc
Rockin’ at the B+S!
1. Danger Games (Price) 2. Get Back (Lennon/McCartney)
3. You Really Got Me/All Day and All of the Night (Davies)
4. Albatross (Green) 5. 2-4-6-8 Motorway (Robinson)
6. Things We Said Today (Lennon/McCartney)
7. In The Midnight Hour (Pickett/Cropper)
8. Glad All Over (Clark/Smith)
9. Get Off My Cloud (Jagger/Richards)
10. Swords of a Thousand Men (Tudor-Pole)
11. I Saw Her Standing There (Lennon/McCartney)
12. My Generation (Townshend) 13. Marie Marie (Stevens)
14. Twist and Shout (Medley/Russell)
15. In The Midnight Hour (Pickett/Cropper)
17. Bye Bye Johnny (Berry) 18. Hi Ho Silver Lining (Control)
Paul Banfield: Bass/Lead Vocal
Dean Dales: Guitar/Backing Vocal
Duncan Massey: Drums/Backing Vocal
Produced by Duncan Massey
2003 Remix Engineer: Rick Marton
Photograph: Sergeants Inc
Recorded electrically live at the B and S Club, Featherstone.
Duncan Massey uses and recommends Pearl Drums.
© 1982/2003/2007 Sergeants Inc
Cabbages and Kings. And Garage Conversions
Al-reet me owd loves. King Spikey Bloke here with a self consciously wacky first posting. I have been converting me garage, tha nos. I have made it into a cabbage! Wot a waste of money. I could have saved thousands just by visiting me local green grocer. Eeh, I am a one!
Spikey's message for today: Join a Union
Spikey's message for today: Join a Union
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