Dave The Punk

Ah, the summer of ’75. The weather was hot, the music was glam, and I was ten years old with knees like sandpaper and a total disregard for health and safety. It was our annual family camping holiday to Cornwall, back when tents smelled of canvas and mildew, and parents solved all childcare by buying a pint and telling the kids to “go and play.”

The pub we visited one evening had not one but two beer gardens—playground heaven. The gardens were separated by a gate, which to us kids was less a boundary and more of a racetrack checkpoint. We tore around the perimeter like deranged squirrels, high on Panda Pops and generational neglect.

But in one of the side gardens, someone had planted a trap. A row of upright metal stakes, each one topped with a small triangular metal plate. At perfect thigh height for the average ten-year-old. I clocked them immediately and made a mental note: Avoid that bit. A sensible, clear-headed decision. Which lasted about twenty minutes.

Darkness fell, and someone shouted, “Let’s play chase!” and my brain emptied of all useful information, including the layout of the garden and the continued existence of my femoral artery.

Mid-sprint, I felt my jeans rip. My first thought was not, “Am I mortally wounded?” but: “Dad’s going to kill me for wrecking my trousers.” Then I noticed the warmth. The stickiness. The way my leg was now auditioning for Carrie. I limped to the furthest end of the garden to assess the damage—and realised it wasn’t just denim that had given way. I had impaled myself on one of Cornwall’s least charming landscaping features.

I stumbled into the bar like a pint-sized horror movie extra. Women screamed. Pints were abandoned. I’m fairly sure someone fainted. It was, in hindsight, my first lesson in the power of dramatic entrance.

Next came the ambulance ride—blues and twos!—which was thrilling, right up until the local hospital introduced me to the concept of stitches. Ten of them, to be precise, used to close the ragged, triangle-shaped wound that had taken up sudden residence on my thigh. I still have the scar. It’s a permanent souvenir from that trip—along with a lifelong mistrust of gardening equipment.

Dave The Punk

Dead Men Walking — the punk rock supergroup with more legends than a punk family tree — hit my hometown three years in a row. It became a bit of a tradition: the gig, the pint, the stripped-back brilliance… and then my post-show ritual.

Each year, once the crowd had cleared and the venue staff weren’t looking, I’d sneak behind the staircase and carefully peel the tour poster off the window. One man’s marketing, another man’s shrine.

These sacred artefacts were proudly displayed behind my desk at work. Punk pride, right there in the finance department.

Unbeknown to me, one of my colleagues booked a meeting with staff from that very venue — in our office. The second they clocked my wall, I could feel the blood drain from my face. The posters. Their posters. Would I be rumbled?

They stared for a moment, then burst out laughing. One of them said, “Ah, so that’s where they went.” Crisis averted.

That broke the ice nicely, and we ended up having a great chat about Captain Sensible. To me, a childhood hero. To them, a client with a rider.

Dave The Punk

I was in my mid-forties when I first floated the idea of getting a tattoo. My wife, ever the diplomat, looked horrified and declared I was clearly having a mid-life crisis. So I dropped it.

Then, on my next birthday, she handed me a voucher for a local tattoo studio — the gift of permanent ink from someone who hates tattoos. Now that’s love.

The hard part? Deciding what to get.

A year earlier, I’d seen Rancid in London. Tim Armstrong handed me their setlist, and I’ve been chasing that high — and collecting setlists — ever since. I was so hyped that night I bought a t-shirt on the way out. That shirt became the basis for my first tattoo: Tim, hunched over his upside-down Gretsch guitar slung criminally low, with a squadron of fighter bombers flying overhead. Just your typical tribute to ska-punk chaos.

Since then? Well, Tim kickstarted two long-term addictions… fifty tattoos and fifty setlists later, I’m basically a walking scrapbook with commitment issues.

Dave The Punk

Back in my Unspeakable! days, I stumbled across a beautiful glitch in the system — a capitalist wormhole powered by Beck’s lager and a now-defunct website called Play.com.

It went like this: in 2010, Beck’s were running a promotion. Each 330ml bottle came with a code for a free MP3 download from Play.com. A six-pack of the beer worked out between 60p and 67p a bottle. The downloads were legit. And so, being a curious punk with a desktop and a thirst, I tried downloading one of my own tracks.

Play.com paid out 69p per download in royalties. You can do the maths.

Yes — for a brief, glorious spell, I had created a self-sustaining beer economy. I bought the beer, drank the beer, entered the code, downloaded my own song, and got paid more than I’d spent. It was like living inside a Monty Python sketch written by Darby Crash.

Eventually, someone turned the lights off at Play.com (RIP), and the loop was broken. But for a few hazy, fuzz-drenched weeks, I was being paid to get drunk and listen to myself.

Unspeakable? Maybe. Genius? Absolutely.

Dave The Punk

As usual, I was right at the front for Gallows — that glorious, chaotic zone where hearing loss and bruises come free with every ticket. Things were wild, as expected, until the final song, when their towering Canadian frontman Wade MacNeil decided to launch himself into the crowd. He made it out fine. Coming back? Less so.

As he was surfed toward the stage, some part of his hefty anatomy collided squarely with my head, and something sharp — a mic stand? A rogue badge? Pure vengeance? — gashed the bridge of my nose. I winced. “Ow,” I thought with British understatement. I felt wetness on my face but assumed it was sweat or beer. Then the lights came up.

The stage looked like a crime scene. A small pool of blood glistened by my feet. I touched my face and came away with a hand that looked like I’d lost a knife fight. Concerned gig-goers stared at me in horror. My son just looked jealous.

I nipped to the toilets and discovered the damage wasn’t bad — just a deep cut, no permanent disfigurement (at least, not beyond the usual).

At the merch stand, I told Lags, the guitarist, what had happened. He looked suitably horrified and handed me some Gallows badges like they were Purple Hearts. Then I bumped into Wade and jokingly said, “Look what you did to my nose.” His reply?
“I thought I could feel bones crushing below me.”

Rock and roll, eh?

Dave The Punk

I saw Anti-Vigilante three times in 2012 — though technically, it took three gigs to see one full set.

First was The Hydrant in Brighton, January. I was buzzing for it, but thanks to a mix-up on stage times, I had to leg it halfway through their set to catch the last train home. Brutal.

Luckily, they were back in Brighton that November, this time at the Cowley Club. I wasn’t taking any chances — I drove. I told frontman Josh Chandler-Morris before the show I was finally going to see their full set. He laughed. I didn’t.

Midway through their set, all hell broke loose. Someone let off a fire extinguisher — and not just a quick spray. It erupted. Thick foam blasted across the room like a DIY foam party gone rogue. It coated the floor, the crowd, and guitarist Sean’s pedalboard, instantly killing the set. You had to wade through it to get to the toilets. Ska-punk meets foam-drenched farce.

Josh made a joke afterwards about me now having “two halves of a set,” so at least we were keeping it mathematically balanced.

I asked where else they were heading. Turned out they had a Hastings date coming up at The Tubman. I told him I’d be there — only an hour’s drive for me.

At the Hastings show, the third time finally went right. Josh even gave me a shout-out mid-set for making the trip and retold the foam saga to the crowd. Ska-punk justice at last.

Dave The Punk

I used to be a runner — until football did what it does best: ruin knees and dreams. In 2012, I got back on the bike, mostly to avoid spontaneous combustion. My first sportive that year was a 44 miler. Modest. Respectable. Like a polite handshake.

Fast-forward to 2014. The Haywards Heath Howler — 102 miles of scenic Sussex suffering, wrapped in a name that sounds like a lost Exploited album. I wasn’t nervous. I had a plan: break six hours, don’t die, look cool doing it.

Ditchling Beacon was the only real villain in the first half — a vertical punch to the lungs dressed as a country lane. The sadistic route planners kindly saved most of the climbing for the last 20 miles, by which point my legs were writing angry poetry. The weather was kind, clocking in at 22°C — warm enough for a sweat, not enough to hallucinate badgers.

I cruised over the line in 5 hours 48 minutes, feeling like I’d cracked the code. Century ride? Done it. Nailed it. Retired champion, yeah?

Except… no. That was just the gateway drug.

It was supposed to be a one-off. My grand finale. My two-wheeled mic drop.

I’ve now ridden 97 centuries. Somewhere along the road, “never again” turned into “just one more.” Classic punk move, really — say you’re out, then jump back in when the guitars kick off.

Dave The Punk

When I hit 50, we threw a party like no other — not just a midlife knees-up, but a full-blown genre-bending costume gig with a bar. The brief? Come as your favourite artist or musical vibe. Some went all in — we had Elvis, The Blues Brothers, Amy Winehouse, Shirley Temple and Don flaming Williams. Polly nailed Dick Van Dyke. I came as myself, obviously — who else could keep up?

I couldn’t wrangle my birthday playlist into one tidy set, so I ran two: kitchen and lounge. Ten hours of chaos, curated to keep people dancing, head-nodding, or yelling “Wait, is this The Ruts?”

The cake? A pink and yellow punk masterpiece: Never Mind the Bollocks in icing.

But the real showstopper was the music wall. One side of our double lounge transformed into a timeline of noisy obsession — t-shirts, CDs, mags, posters, setlists, studded belts, a drumstick and even my old guitar. Four decades of glorious racket, plastered from skirting to ceiling.

I didn’t feel older. Just louder.

Dave The Punk

Two years after my first century, I lined up for number 12 — the RideLondon 100, a closed-road blitz through the capital and out into the Surrey hills. The goal? Smash the five-hour mark. I’d trained hard, was feeling strong… and I’d bleached my hair for good luck. (Because obviously nothing screams “aerodynamic weapon” like peroxide.)

I left home sometime around stupid o’clock, drove to South London, then rode the final six miles to the Olympic Park. My wave rolled out at 7 a.m., straight onto the A12 — and boom, we were off. The city turned into a tarmac racetrack, and I tucked in, chasing wheels like a kid buzzing on Haribo.

London was a blur of brilliance: Tower of London, London Eye, Trafalgar Square, Pall Mall, The Ritz — I might’ve high-fived a Beefeater at one point. It was fast, it was furious, and it was utterly surreal.

Then the hills arrived. Newlands Corner at mile 45 — sharp, testing. Leith Hill came next, steep enough to make you question your life choices. Box Hill followed, smoother but still a leg-sapper. The crowds in Dorking gave it some lungs; the cheer squads on Box Hill could’ve carried me up themselves.

Then it was back towards the city — no big climbs, just rhythm, speed, and caffeine-fuelled adrenaline. A rise through Wimbledon, a flying drop to Putney Bridge, and then the final straight. The Mall. The crowds. Buckingham flippin’ Palace.

I went full gas over the line, stared at my bike computer like it owed me money — 4 hours, 27 minutes.

Job done. Target obliterated. Hair still ridiculous.

Dave The Punk

La Marmotte Pyrénées: 104 miles, 6,500 metres of climbing, and one deeply unhinged route planner who apparently thought one ascent of the Col du Tourmalet just wasn’t character-building enough. So we did it twice. Up. Down. Back up — like some sadistic game of alpine ping-pong.

The first climb of the Tourmalet was brutal. The second was personal. Somewhere along the way, my legs stopped working and my brain started asking questions like, “Is this what dying feels like?” and “Can you sob and pedal at the same time?”

Throw in the Hourquette d’Ancizan and Col d’Aspin — which sounds like a Bond villain and climbs like one too — and the whole thing stopped being a bike ride and started feeling more like a mountain-flavoured fever dream.

I burned, I bonked, I may have barked at a goat. But I made it — over every peak, through every meltdown, and across the finish line at the summit of the Hautacam in one soggy, salt-streaked, semi-conscious piece.

I went to the Pyrenees to ride like a legend… and nine hours later, left wondering if I needed therapy.

full story on Sportive.com

Dave The Punk

I took my (then) teenage son to the Undercover Festival. I had noble intentions: skip the booze, focus on collecting setlists. He had other ideas.

Between the bands, he’d reappear with a pint for me. I couldn’t refuse — fatherly bonding and all that — but after a few, I warned him: no more, I’m getting drunk. Naturally, they kept coming.

After the headliner, I staggered away from the main stage only to be dragged into a smaller room where punk covers band The Fanzines were kicking off. Cue drunken dad dancing, intermittent falling over, and a glorious generational mash-up as I relived my teenage years with my teenager.

When the set ended, he vanished… then reappeared from their dressing room, setlist in hand, and a can of beer for each of us. The lad’s a legend.

Dave The Punk

Waiting for Möngöl Hörde, I’d picked my spot — side of the stage, up against the barrier — planning to stay clear of the pit until they played Hey Judas. They opened with it. So much for the plan. I was in the pit from the very first riff to the final chaos.

It was full throttle. At one point my glasses flew clean off my head — I thought they were lost to the punk gods — but during a rare lull, I spotted them on the floor: bent, filthy, but miraculously intact.

Later, just to complete the look, the sole of one boot ripped clean away from the toe. Still hanging on at the heel, flapping like mad as I kept bouncing. Style and safety, both absolutely out the window.

Dave The Punk

Mont Ventoux. The Giant of Provence. The Queen of iconic climbs. Call her what you like — none of the three routes to her summit take prisoners.

Some people ride up once and call it epic. Some go up twice and start questioning their life choices. I did all three — because apparently, I think exhaustion is a personality trait.

Round one: Malaucène — a gentle opener, if your idea of gentle includes 13 miles of uphill and the occasional identity crisis.

Round two: Bédoin — the brute. Steep, relentless, and about as forgiving as a French waiter when you mispronounce croissant.

Round three: Sault — the “easy” one, which was adorable considering my legs had launched a coup and were demanding I pedal with my arms.

By the end, I’d ridden over 40 miles uphill, climbed half the height of Everest, and earned the wonderfully unhinged title of Cinglé du Mont Ventoux — which translates to “madman of Ventoux.” Accurate.

It was beautiful, painful, and entirely unnecessary. Just how I like it.

full story on Sportive.com

Dave The Punk

What I didn’t know at the time was that The Adicts would be my last gig for almost a year and a half. Within weeks, the world would fall silent — shutters down, stages dark, and the chaos traded for lockdowns.The pit was replaced by quiet streets and awkward Zoom quizzes, and my boots gathered more dust than stories.

The lights went out, and the silence took centre stage.

Dave The Punk