Easy Sleazy

Morecambe. Home of, err, what exactly? A million chavs and the highest concentration of charity and pound shops you've ever seen in your life. They don't even have a proper amusement park any more, not even the bizarre Mr Blobby-themed one which oddly wasn't ever really much of a success anyway.

I was there for the Nice 'n' Sleazy punk festival which lasted a mammoth five days. Well, kind of.

Wednesday night was the pre-pre-show at a pub which looked so derelict a light breeze could have knocked it down. I saw about two songs of a band whose name escapes me and was busy catching up with friends and trying to avoid a woman who looked like a seasoned heroin addict and was definitely trying to minesweep drinks which still had owners.

And Thursday was the pre-show in a pub called The Exchange which the management had thoughtfully ensured was hotter than the surface of the sun in the main bar. There were six bands on and I was confident I would die of heatstroke before the second one took the stage.

It was opened by Sanction This who I had to look up on a flyer before writing this, as much to Gaz's annoyance I'd been continually calling them Analyse This all weekend. They were a good, solid hardcore outfit from Northumberland, a combination of yelling and accents meaning no one understood a word, like, divven't ya knaa.

The Scumbrians were fresh out of a garage in Whitehaven and looked like they'd arrived straight from school. More enthusiasm than ability.

Hands Off Gretel were next and were an all-too-polished band, lacking originality and appeal. As my mate Mark who never says anything bad about anyone said: “Look at that cunt on the bass.”

Wonk Unit were brilliant. Daft songs with singalong-inducing daftness. Perfect for when you've reached the 10-pints-and-will-laugh-at-anything stage.

The Working Man had great songs, but they went for a novelty approach full of costume changes which spoiled it a bit.

The Reverends were a serious three piece, but by this point there were only about seven people watching as everyone had crammed into the tiny beer garden where it was a mere fifty degrees. Gaz bought an album and asked them to sign it. “But we aren't famous,” they said.

Friday teatime saw the start of the festival proper at the Trimpell Sports and Social Club. One indoor stage and one in an outdoor marquee with a selection of four craft ales at a reasonable £2.65 would ensure much jollity.

Chocolate Shreddies openly admitted to stealing other bands' songs and just changing the lyrics, but they were funny: “This is a song about John Candy, it's called John Candy” and “This is a song about Charlie Sheene, it's called Charlie Sheene”. It was only 5pm and they threw down the gauntlet.

Vomit then picked up the gauntlet and decided they didn't want it.

Healthy Junkies weren't up to much either.

Mad Jack and the Hatters were though. They were an energetic psychobilly band and the girl playing the upright bass was about half the size of the upright bass. That didn't stop her throwing the instrument around the stage like a demon.

The crowd were suitably warmed up for Flat Back Four who played fast, frantic, North American-sounding punk in a set which ended far too quickly. I bought a CD. I never buy a CD.

After this I may or may not have fallen asleep briefly at the side of the cricket pitch, but can neither confirm nor deny this.

Saturday started at 12, so an all-dayer was called for. Having been in the pub at opening time three days in a row it was starting to take its toll a little.

Middle Finger woke us up. They were definitely foreign as they had thick accents, most songs were definitely in a language that wasn't English and one was called Igor, but I have no idea where they were from. Or maybe they just came from Hexham?

Skaciety were a band I'd managed to miss twice previously through booze-based shenanigans and after two songs I wished I'd missed them again.

Then came the highlight: Pizza Tramp.

“This one's about people who take photos of their dinner and post it on Facebook like they're fucking Marco Pierre White.”

Interesting.

Fast, well-played hardcore songs ensued for almost half an hour and in that time they played about 50 songs altogether.

The bass player had a very similar beard to mine which meant that right after they'd finished playing I was involved in a case of mistaken identity, someone thanking me for playing and telling me I was fucking brilliant.

I was hungry. The Happy Chef at the venue – seriously the most genuinely positive person I have ever met – served me a huge helping of lasagne, chips and salad and that pretty much wiped me out for the rest of the evening, but in a good way. And it was way, way better than the rubber burgers some twat was selling outside.

And so into the final day. Reject Renegades opened it up with something average, but uplifting. They allowed a couple of disabled kids on stage to “help them out” who clearly had the absolute time of their lives. My eyes were sweating.

Trigger McPoopshoot from Wales were next and they sang “sweary, short songs about all sorts of bollocks”. Anyone who can have a tent full of hangover-nursers singing along with a song about public self-defecation frankly deserve some sort of award. I spoke to this lot for getting on for ten minutes after they played. Sheer brilliance.

And then The Pukes were delivering a blistering performance and Dirt Box Disco were whoa-oh-ing and na-na-ing their way through an hour before the weekend ended.

All in all, this was the best festival I've ever been to. It was affordable and well-planned. There was good beer and good food. The atmosphere was fantastic. The bands were brilliant. And the weather mostly behaved itself.

Cheers to Mark, Gaz, Kristy, Bill, Louise and even Mike, who inexplicably packed up and buggered off first thing Sunday morning, for sharing it with me and making me laugh almost constantly for about 100 hours.

Roll on next year.

Photo courtesy of Debbie Jarman, Trimpell Camera Club