Dave The Punk

For our 25th wedding anniversary, we headed to Amsterdam — a romantic city of canals, art, and, as it turns out, psychedelic misadventure.

On the day itself, we were wandering the streets when Polly dragged me into one of those “special” coffee shops. She confidently ordered a joint. I hadn’t touched anything like that since a teenage misfire, so I stuck to a black coffee and an innocent-looking muffin.

She was a bit giggly and wobbly on the way out, so I played the sensible one and guided her back to the hotel like some sort of stoner chaperone. But then… the muffin kicked in. Subtly at first. Then not-so-subtly. Dizzy turned to “hang on, is gravity broken?” and I had to lie down.

Next thing I know, the walls are doing jazz hands and I’m clinging to the bed convinced I’m going to be launched into space. It was all glitter and giggles at first, but then the paranoia rolled in like a fog machine at an ’80s gig.

Meanwhile, my poor wife went out for our romantic anniversary dinner alone, while I spent the evening grinning at the ceiling and trying not to fall off the planet.

Not quite what we had in mind… but it definitely brought new meaning to “elevated experience.”

Dave The Punk

After this glorious run of gigs, Covid finally caught up with me — my first time, and it hit hard. Eternally grateful for the vaccinations, which took the edge off and quite possibly kept me out of hospital. One in the eye for the conspiracy theorists.

It also stole Rammstein from me — my first time seeing them, years in the making. I had a Feuerzone ticket, prime fireball real estate. Instead, I was stuck at home, feverish and fuming, while my son took my ticket… and my dreams went up in pyrotechnic smoke without me.

As for how I caught it? Could’ve been the sticky stage monitors at the Underworld, Jonny Rotten’s spittoon radius, or the headbutt diplomacy of the Father’s Day mosh pit. Honestly, it’s a miracle I didn’t catch something sooner.

Dave The Punk

Couldn’t sleep the night before. Maybe it was dread. Maybe it was excitement. Or maybe it was the creeping realisation that I was about to spend an entire day in my garage trying to climb Mount bloody Everest — on a turbo trainer. Because nothing says punk rock like deliberately suffering in a confined space for 15½ hours with no one forcing you.

I was up at 1:30 am. In the saddle by 3. No music, just the whirr of the flywheel and the sound of my own stupidity echoing in my skull. The goal? Eight and a half laps of Alpe du Zwift. 8,848 metres of climbing. No shortcuts. No excuses. No brakes.

Each climb? 72 to 80 minutes of leg-churning déjà vu. Like Groundhog Day with chafing. No moshing, no sweat-drenched crowd — just me and the mountain, again and again and again. Around climb three, things wobbled. The adrenaline wore off, the doubt crept in. My body sent a cease and desist as my legs filed an official complaint with HR. It was a full-on existential grievance meeting on wheels. But I kept going. Because stubbornness is free and I’d already committed to stupid.

Then the reinforcements arrived. Mates rocked up throughout the day, cheering, shouting, drinking beer (the bastards), filling the space with much-needed chaos. At a semi-respectable hour, Abrasive Wheels kicked off the playlist — all attitude and feedback — and suddenly it felt less like torture, more like a basement gig where the headliner is pain and I’m the sweaty support act.

Fuel? Chaos on a plate. Caffeine shots, energy gels, jam bagels, hummus wraps, rice cakes, jelly beans — basically, a buffet that could fuel a music festival and confuse a dietician. Part science, part desperation, part “what’s still in the fridge?” I wasn’t eating for pleasure — I was eating for war.

Twelve hours in the saddle (with a few lie-downs in between), 137 miles, 6,500 calories burned. I climbed Everest. In my garage. On a Sunday. Because punk’s not just a sound — it’s a mindset. Loud. Unreasonable. Unstoppable.

Dave The Punk