The Duncan Anthology

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.