So, we turned up on the Friday, met the guys and steamed on with the equipment setup. It was a nice little stage and we were set up fairly quickly. Jamie assured us that his old, dusty Carlsboro, brought in for the second guitarist, would be fine. The fact that it hadn't been gigged since Tutankhamen's 16^th Birthday wasn't mentioned as I blindly powered it up. Well, the light came on…

We both soundchecked and sat back ready for the crowds to pile in. Once again, we were joined by Sarah, our former vocalist turned roadie – great to see you again mate! Also good to see my old pal Mike who brought a gang of Southampton's finest minds – dedicated to the study of beer and loud music. Twenty-five past nine and the crowds still hadn't turned up. We were then prodded with the question of "Are you going on soon?" Evidently the crowds were not just around the corner. Despite all of the promotion, it was going to be a cosy gig.

We were doing a cut down set of Indie tunes to set the tone nicely for the evening. Steve leading the way with usual opener In The Morning, set us off. A couple of songs in and the heat up there was phenomenal. The stage is normally a pool area and the table lights were very low and very, very hot indeed. Not only does this make you sweat bucketloads, it also dries the throat right out and plays havoc with your tuning. Five songs in and the two part harmony of Weather With You was lucky to go full term without me croaking.

The two punters that weren't with us were at least having a good time. The couple were dancing merrily in as much space as they could get into. With little sweat droplets appearing all over the stage, a soaking shirt and a complete lack of anything to drink now, it was becoming a struggle and we were only just over halfway through the set. Somehow I managed to find some voice left to belt out The Killers' track All These Things That I've Done. How Jamie coped with singing 85% of the set in that dry heat I'll never know, especially as by now I was stealing his drink – Steve wisely keeping his hidden!

We got some good cheers for Worried About Ray and our rendition of Generator then we ended our set with Razorlight's Fall To Pieces. It was nice to get the calls for an encore but that spot would go to Off Limits as it was their headline night. We'd played 15 songs in our hour's opening spot, not bad. So, straight to the bar instead and two pints of water necked in seconds.

Now, during their set, our dancing lady had come up and one by one dragged us all up onto the dancefloor. The girl would not take no for an answer although Steve's "dodgy ankle" did seem to work, sly bugger! She cried "Yoo smell niiice" into my ears as she groped at me, swinging me round the floor – positive proof that the chicks truly dig a sweaty, fat man.  No idea where this lady was from but she had a foreign accent and really needed to lay off the Red Bull. Still, at least she was having a good time. "That my boyfreeend" she cried whilst nearly poking my eyes out. I was assured that he was also delicately fragrant.

Off Limits were flying through their set, throwing in a couple of choice covers, here and there to flesh it out. Doris the Dynamo was still spanking the planks as they played on. They closed with their rendition of The Proclaimers' 500 Miles and Doris was on the verge of exploding with Dance-mania pulling almost every cushioned bum up to dance.

We'd all been impressed by Off Limits. I thought that maybe on Saturday I'd detail it a bit better and give them a full review – see how my amateur music journo abilities would do. We'd been informed that the kit would be OK if we left it there as Saturday's were dead without the football. That was a nice relief as packing away is such a drag. We did pack up the minor bits n bobs leaving the big stuff there and then it was all off home.

On my 50 mile drive home in the van, I thought, yeah, it wasn't a massive turn out, but I was sure that Saturday's crowd would make up for it. Saturday's usually the better night out isn't it? Yeah, it'll be fine.

APB

Back in The Royal... Back in The Royal Exchange!

Despite the lack of public appearances, the last couple of months have been pretty eventful behind the scenes. New material had been learned and practiced in preparation for a wedding gig -  that got cancelled with a few weeks notice! We then had a few weeks off which saw Jamie become a proud dad to baby Lucy! Since then, practice time has been at a premium and trying to get new material perfected has been quite the juggling act. So, just to keep things in the APB spirit, fate conspired to give me a back injury on the Monday prior to the gig. Luckily the pain had died down and with a cocktail of adrenaline and painkillers I was able to do the gig standing up (a musician's stool had been shipped from 'oop North just in case, courtesy of Rockin' Johnny).

We arrived, got set up and soundchecked by around half seven. It was nice to meet the gorgeous Angie, another MySpace pal. She told us that she wouldn't normally be out at the weekend, but was coming along for her first APB experience! Also great to see the lovely Anita again. Back with her gang, grabbing front row seats. Then came the big dilemma... food! It was time to introduce the guys to the peak of North East Hampshire's culinary establishments - the Bordon Kebab van. A quick nip up the road and it was kebabs-a-plenty, but Steve did go for the girlie burger option, lightweight! Once the kebabs were demolished we were ready for the off!

Kicking off at 8:40 with regular starter In The Morning, we grooved through the reshuffled set of indie tunes. Some Paolo Nutini has found it's way in and met with some interesting response... A first time airing of the Oasis track Don't Look Back In Anger did go down rather well. This was a nice boost as we hadn't had much time to get it as polished as we'd like but it fell into place nicely on the night.  Getting bouncier by the song, it felt like the back pain had gone off to the end of the bar to watch the show in comfort, and the odd kebab burp (keburp) jumping out to surprise us, we drove through the rest of the first set in a confident, happy style, ending with Orson's Bright Idea.

We headed straight outside in the break as it was so hot - especially for a bouncy, fat man. A bit of expert advice from Rockin' Johnny (Jamie's dad) saw us make a couple of tweaks to the sound. A quick mingle and it's all been going down well so the time comes to take to the stage again.

Into the second set and we pick up where we left off, some good, punchy indie tunes only now we have a critic. I'm no stranger to a bit of banter - it's a good laugh and I can usually give as good as I get. The problem is that with some folks, they don't understand that the idea of heckling is to make the band look stupid. There is another old saying; never argue with an idiot - they bring you down to their level and then beat you with experience. Tonight's second set would give credence to this.

Somebody had a little difficulty in handling his few shandies and thought he'd become the world's best comedian by shouting abuse after every song. I'd tried a little earlier to get him to wind his neck in but he obviously needed to prove a point. We've all met one of those people who can't handle their beer. They suddenly get their cape on and become Supertwat.

Picking on the band is a bit cowardly though, let's be honest. It's not like you're another punter who can nip out and sort these matters in the old fashioned way. No, you're a stranger, facing an unknown quantity. You're exposed, with thousands of pounds worth of your own hard-earned gear, knowing that some dickhead could launch a chair, pool cue or pint glass at you or your kit. Yup, it's the sign of a brave man to get abusive at those least likely to be in a position to do much about it.

So we're into the second set and I'm sick of it. I try the big piss-take method as that usually hits the spot. Thing is, I try this and behind our resident jester, there are many folks signalling for me not to carry on with the mockery. I forget that these are modern times. It is acceptable for someone to swear at me all evening for the sake of it but I mustn't retaliate in kind, must I? Well, safe in the knowledge that a ruck wouldn't break out (if he actually was a hardman, he'd have offered me out or had a real go by now) we may as well get on with it. No sense in completely ruining everyone else's night by packing up and going home is there?

We plough on into the oldies set and yeah, I'm rattled. I'm annoyed, I don't need this. I'm not a professional, this isn't my day job, it's my passion. I love playing music. I love to perform, to entertain and judging by the reactions that we get every gig, I don't think I'm too bad at it. We do our thing and it always goes down well. We've got no delusions of grandeur, just a passion to play. Thing is, what's annoyed me most, is the fact that nothing's done about it.

Nevertheless, we plough through and in a little gap we're inundated for calls for Sweet Home Alabama. This is becoming a habit now - requesting songs I've never ever played in my life. Jamie, true to form knocks out the main riff of the song a couple of times to cheers from the crowd. I never realised how simple a tune it was and start playing along so we blag it. I think I got about 80% of the lyrics right - verses not necessarily in the right order but it's a blast, met with raucous applause. We dive straight into a three song mash up which also goes down a storm. Charging into our new double hitter, Back In The USSR's first airing also goes down very well before we close the night.

In spite of earlier altercations everyone's calling for more, especially as it's "only" quarter past eleven. Now comes that chant for Johnny B Goode! Yeah... go on then! This time, Jamie doesn't need to invent new verses, sticking to the original text. A couple more sing-alongs and we're done, yet still they cry for more. One final tune to close the evening and we're done. Jamie's fingers are worn away to nubs and Steve looks like he's actually on the verge of breaking a sweat. I could wring a pint out of my bandana but that's par for the course. Thirty-five songs down, we're finished for the night. Time to pack away and go home.

Thanks again to Anita and Angie for coming. Hope you both had a good night and hope to see you again soon!

So, here I sit on a Sunday evening and I think, is it worth it? Take away the fuel costs for each gig and the price of a new set of strings. Nobody notices the hours before you arrive, and after you leave each gig, for collecting and packing gear, plus travel time. An evening's gig takes you about eight hours in total. After costs, when you look at your hourly rate, you ask that question again. I'm in pain now. My back (remember?) is still hurting, no adrenaline to take the edge off.

We gave a damn good show. Doesn't matter what happens, we always give a good show. Just about everyone went home happy... Still don't really know if I did though...

Is it worth it?

Yeah. Yeah, it is. I must be bloody daft.

Please excuse the lateness of the post-gig blog. All complaints may be directed to Mr Jack Daniels of Lynchburg, Tennessee. Also see Mr S Claus, Lapland who also shoulders some of the responsibility.

'Tis the season to be jolly. In fact 'twas the night to drive at ten miles an hour down the A3. We were back at The Parrot in Slyfield, Guildford for Christmas fun and frolics. The weeks leading up to the gig had seen us all hit by illnesses and nightmare work schedules so it was a miracle that we managed to get a couple of festive numbers up to speed for the gig.

We'd pre-loaded so travelled separately to the venue, I arrived first and got pretty much set up as Jamie and Steve trundled in having driven through more fog than you could shake a stick at. Turns out, we'd need several sticks later. Set up was nice and smooth with the new repaired monitor's knobs intact (stop sniggering at the back). A quick sort out of the feedback and Steve also confirms that he can hear us singing perfectly. I don't know whose mic was coming through, but it couldn't have been one of ours.

Kicking off around 8:45-ish we powered through a 14 song set of modern Indie tunes. Unlike our previous visit, Jamie was now the proud owner of a G7th capo which clung to the neck like a fat man to a kebab. We would have no repeated incidents of Jamie's frenzied soloing causing it to fly off nearly blinding innocent bystanders (twice).

A quick break and we're back on for set two. We'd moved almost all of the modern tunes out of the second set and thrown in pots of oldies and party tunes, it is Christmas after all. Starting off with a bit of Oasis and Zutons, we're quickly into the oldies courtesy of Mrs Robinson. As it's Christmas, we even threw in some Blues Brothers and Commitments numbers. Not our standard fare but hey, if yer dancin'...

To keep it all festive there was a first airing of Slade's Merry Christmas Everybody, it is an impressive sight to see a fat man in a blue DPM bandana scream the high "It's Christmaaaaasssssss!" After finishing with Road Runner we carried on for a few more and caught folks on the hop with a reggae version of White Christmas.

Yes folks, White Christmas. Reggae version. Well the audience seemed to like it, maybe out of shock, laughter or drunkenness we don't know but we liked the result. A couple more and we closed out the evening, soaked with perspiration and unwilling to get out into the freezing night.

After packing up the drive through the fog was like venturing into another world. The A3 couldn't have been more of a pea souper if it was in a big red tin with Heinz written on the front. Strangely, that was fate's only real adversary for us on the night. No dodgy electrics, exploding equipment, forgotten instruments or illnesses. That's far too easy for us. Maybe fate's got something particularly sneaky up it's sleeve.

In all, it was a great fun night but just one thing - folks, where are y'all? All you Guildford dwellers would do well to get down to The Parrot. There's going to be a lot of good, live music happening there and it's a good venue with a friendly atmosphere. They're in our top friends, check them out!

Hope you're all having a great Christmas. Best Wishes and hope to see you all in the New Year!

Alfie
APB

The Average Pub Gig?

Murphy's Law dictates that if something can go wrong, it inevitably will, and at the worst possible time. Mr Murphy has evidently been watching our plans this week and having a wry chuckle to himself.

The full schedule for Saturday's gig at The Royal Exchange was planned, checked and rechecked. We would be fully set up and soundchecked by 7:30 for a nice, relaxed, stress-free kick off at 8:30. Was that a leprechaun I heard just then?

So, off I go to the lockup to collect the gear with the news that Jamie may be slightly delayed. No problem, we've got a bit of flexibility, which is a good thing as guess who's forgotten his bass? Luckily, I live only five minutes from the gig so can pick it back up on the way - take that Mr Murphy!

Fresh from our experience last week at The Parrot, where our powered monitors blew up during the soundcheck, we had one repaired and hired in another for the gig. Loading up the gear and the instruction comes from Jamie to be careful of the freshly re-glued knobs on the repaired monitor. That would be those two on the floor of my boot then, ah bugger.

With a couple of pit stops, tummy troubles, bass collection and emergency feeding plans we eventually get to Lindford and hit the venue at five to seven. We're running late but we can make that up, no problem. We start the setup and everything's going OK until Mr Murphy plays his masterstroke - my bass head's died! OK, it's not the socket, changed mains leads; they're fine, changed fuse, no that's OK. Give it the necessary jiggle and there's an intermittent connection. Steve gets down and dirty to work his magic on the electrickery whilst I nip home to grab my practice amp as a contingency plan.

Five past eight and I return to find that Steve's got the head working with the aid of one of the greatest things known to man - gaffer tape. As long as it isn't touched, we'll be OK, Steve 1 - Murphy 0. Final touches done and we do a quick level check at twenty past eight.

Replenish supplies, quick change and we're ready to go by quarter to nine and we start. The first set of mainly modern tunes goes down pretty well. We dedicated one Snow Patrol cover to our friend Anita who had reshuffled shifts to get down to see us - if you're reading, it was great to see you there!

A half hour break that seemed to last all of thirty seconds saw us back on at ten for the second set. A few more modern hits before we powered on through a pile of oldies. Old Murphy tried one final assault, throwing Jamie's guitar tuning way out. An impromptu blast of Chocolate Salty Balls kept up the momentum and brought a big sing-along, whilst Jamie restored his tuning and added a solo which was perfect for a dodgy 70's porn flick (now there's an idea...). By now, Murphy knew he was beaten so went to the bar and drowned his sorrows. Inhibitions were drunkenly lower now and lots of folks were getting their groove on, especially Malcolm and his buddies on the Stag Do bouncing around to our Monkees tunes.

Finishing with a blistering Road Runner, the crowd baying for more we play the much requested That's Entertainment to great response. A few more tunes and we rounded off the night with Whistle For The Choir at a quarter past eleven!

We packed up and returned the gear in a fairly smooth operation whilst having a natter with approximately 15% of the Western World. A fun night had by all - especially us!

Big thanks to MySpace pals - Peter and MJ, dragging along Simon and Karen, Clare and her entourage and to Anita and friends for all popping along. Hope you had as enjoyable a night as we did. See you all next time and we'll have more of a natter. And last but by no means least Sarah, our erstwhile vocalist, there to see the current standard. Were we up to scratch? Has the bug bitten again?

Next gig is The Parrot, Guildford, GU1 1QR on 22 Dec.

Mr Murphy? Bring it on!

Alfie
APB