This is all rather strange for The Shapes, as we're actually treated to all sorts of respect and facilities that we are of course completely unused to. We are shown to our own dressing room, which we are to share with 999. It's actually a real dressing room with toilets, sofa, mirrors, fridge and even walls, roof and a window.
The fridge is also stocked with beer, which we drink instantaneously because we can't actually believe that it's for us. It turns out it is, so we drink 999's as well just to be sure. We plan to tell 999 that the Radio Stars took it. There's just me, Steve and Dave there right now, so we all take turns to have a nice sit on the sofa while we wait for the other two to turn up.
I run into TV Smith backstage. He used to be the front man for The Adverts, and is now enjoying a second act as a solo performer. He's on right after The Shapes. I presume they want just want to have one person up there after us, so that they can clear away all the debris that will have been thrown at us during our set. His partner Gaye, who used to be Gaye Advert, the first true female punk icon and erstwhile bass player for The Adverts, accompanies him. I have to admit that I squirted a little pee when I saw her, as she hasn't really changed a bit, and though she doesn't play any more, she'll still be the woman from the poster that adorned by apartment wall for many years. For once, I don't spoilt the moment by talking off my trousers and howling, and she responds by not spraying me with mace. Later on, she will take a nice picture of me with Alvin from the UK Subs. She is also, like TV, good enough to sign my copy of Gary Gilmore's eyes, whilst smiling and backing away slowly maintaining eye contact. I've still got it ladies. I have to say that she is very nice to me, despite clearly not having a fucking clue who I, or indeed The Shapes are. I shall send her a Shapes CD. That'll teach her that no good deed goes unpunished. I also stole some of TV's beer too. After all, he'll never get though a whole fridge full on his own.
Whilst I'm chatting to Gaye, in walks Pauline from Penetration, another of my favorite bands. There seems to be a conspiracy for every woman that was on a poster on my wall as a 19 year old to wander into my view right now. She hasn't changed a bit either in the 30 odd years since I last saw Penetration. I rack my brains to see if I can remember any other women I had stuck to the wall in my flat that might be around but no-one comes to mind, so I have a quick think of Debbie Harry, as she was then, not as she is now, but no luck, as she doesn't magically appear. However, I do appear to be able to conjure up Charlie Harper, so there you go. The Grand Old Man of punk is on rare form as usual. I ask him if he ever sees Alvin Gibbs, his old bass player, these days, which is a bit embarrassing, as Alvin is standing right next to me. Luckily, someone commits a greater faux pas by asking Pauline if Penetration are from London. Penetration are of course from Newcastle Upon Tyne. To put this in perspective for those of you unfamiliar with the geography of Great Britain, Newcastle is about as far away from London as you can get whilst still remaining in the same country, and inferring that someone from Newcastle is from London is on a par with inferring that they fuck their dog.
In fact, I think a Geordie would prefer to be called a dog fucker than a southerner. Anyway, I'm off the hook for the whole Alvin thing, and to prove there's no hard feelings, I drink some of the UK Subs beer and fuck off back to The Shapes palatial dressing room to prepare for our set and have a nice sit on our sofa.
Now, if you ask anyone who knows me, they'll tell you that amongst many other things, I'm not one for the mathematics, being unable to add two numbers together for love nor money. However, even I can tell that there's only three of us present with 30 minutes to go to stage time, and after a small amount of calculations, I come to the conclusion that we are still two short, namely the Seymour and the Tim. They are stuck in traffic. Oh well, that's all right then. This would be a lot more serious if it weren't for the fact that the band that are due on before us in 5 minutes, Manchester's inimitable Goldblade, are also stuck in the same traffic. If this doesn't sort itself out, us three may have to go on to fill the time by performing Lady Windemere's Fan for the assembled punks. The stage manager, a lovely fellow who travels under the soubriquet of Plops, is looking little concerned, as well he might, as with five minutes to go before Goldblade are due to play, he doesn't have a full band in the house to put on.
However, with a screech of tires, Goldblade arrive and literally throw themselves out of the car, through the stage side door and onto the stage. That's the nice thing about punk rock, you can pitch up in your street clothes and just get up there and play. They do a great set and warm the audience up a treat for the three Shapes in attendance. Upon returning to the dressing room, it seems more crowded than I remember. This is because the Seymour and the Tim have arrived. There's just enough time to get changed, tune up, and get back down to the stage, which we, being the consummate professionals we are do. We arrive on stage to find that in a Spinal Tap moment, only three of us have made it there. I seem to remember that we all left the dressing room at the same time, but Dave and Seymour are AWOL. If this keeps up, I'll have to talk to the audience, and no one wants that. Dave finally arrives behind the kit, wearing a T-Shirt that reads "Evil Bald Fucker". I'll say one thing for the man, he believes in truth in advertising that's for sure. We have a quorum, so we launch into the first song. We figure that Seymour will hear the noise and find his way to us, which of course he does, and promptly commences doing the wordy bits to prevent the songs from becoming embarrassingly long instrumentals.