Sunday 4th November 2007 was the 30th anniversary of the last time The Stranglers played the famous Roundhouse in London, when they broke the existing record for sold out shows there (previously held by The Stones, I think) and to celebrate the fact the band decided to play gigs in Glasgow, Manchester and the Roundhouse it's self, playing the exact same set on the same night as they had done 30 years ago.
I managed to make it to the Glasgow and London shows, here is my tale:

Firstly, I thought I'd do a review of the Glasgow & Roundhouse gigs at the same time, a sort of travelogue, if you will. But, after a chat with a few other fans on the Thursday night in Glasgow, I was reminded that if I leave it too late, a couple of days or so, I'll probably have forgotten half of whatever I had half remembered not to forget in the first place. This would be due, obviously, to my advanced years and goldfish-like memory span these days, and not that the gig was in any way unmemorable- it was a fantastic gig, and a brilliant night out.
One early highlight for me was helping to finally pop my mate Paul's Stranglers-cherry. His major Stranglers claim to fame up until then had been getting to shake Dave Greenfield's hand in the alley outside The Glasgow Apollo back in 1984. He never went to the Apollo gig though, and up until that night had never seen them live.
Shocking, I know.
Anyway, all it eventually took, after initially only luring him out for a few pints before the rest of us went to the gig, was a good few pints of Heavy and a couple of hours well spent in the pub soaking in the vibe of the gathering Stranglers fans, all chomping at the bit eager for the gig, all with a crackin tale or two to tell.
We left the pub about 8.30ish? and crossed a street now black with Stranglers fans to get to the venue, me still not tired of tonight's joke of catching a fellow Stranglers Tshirt clad fan's eye, nodding slightly and asking, "Out anywhere special tonight mate?" and Paul was soon scraping up enough dosh to buy a ticket from a tout outside. I got into the hall and had a last hope that'll hold me for the whole gig pish (especially, as it transpired, no Golden Brown to give me time to empty a full again bladder mid gig) and I got back out in time to hear the distinctive pre-intro rumblings of JJ Burnel's Heroes bass line- No intro music at all- straight into it -wham bam thankyoumam.
And already, the rest is a wonderful blur.
I remember a brilliant set list, and trying to ring my other mate Paul, in London, on my mobile, not sure if he was getting the calls or not, and I recall an ecstatic crowd loving every minute and a band with very warmed cockles in response, and that I was grinning from ear to ear at the end. And afterwards my mate Paul raved about what a great gig it was too, he was very impressed, although, as it was his first Stranglers gig, he would have quite liked to have heard Nice N Sleazy, Duchess and even Always The Sun, (there's always one, isn't there? )- I did assure him that it was just his tough shit- as it says on the tin- tonight it was 1977 again and no one I saw looked the least bit disappointed. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Thirty years ago eh? Who'd a thunk it? Well, my body for a start. Drinking- it's a young man's sport isn't it? 20yrs ago I could handle all that Going out on the piss every Friday, Saturday and Sunday night, and still being up relatively fresh for work come Monday morning. Now, not so much. Drinking on Thursday afternoon before that night's gig 'till the wee small hours was brilliant, and just about worth the cost of admission the next day - a depressive, grey hangover that hailed from one of the less exclusive outer provinces of Hell. Finding my way to the airport and down to London the next day was fine though, and marked by a nice building buzz about the trip. Classic schoolboy error when I got there though, drinking with PaulinLondon 'till 4am the morning of the gig. Fucken brilliant idea at the time though, highlights being meeting the man in the first place, the cool local Sicilian restaurant were we finally stumbled off to through the bright lights of Finchley (Impressively, all the staff knew Paul by name and they happily revealed that their favourite Stranglers song was Stai zitto!) and then the pished up Stranglers jam back at Paul's until my Hugh Cornwell impersonation got just too accurate and I burst the first E string with a surprised "Whoa!" Brilliant night, me and Paul rambling non-stop about our love of the band.
Felt fucken shit when I woke up mind, and first stop for me was up to the local chemist for a large cork for my arse; it had been happily producing what had looked (and take my word for it here) what had looked like Large Manure Smoothies ever since the pizzas the night before. The pizza was brilliant at the time, but it melted in my mouth only to come shooting out the other end minutes later. Like that old culinary joke about curries- I don't mind a piss after a meal, but not out my fucken arse!
So yeah, it was down the local Finchley hardware shop early next morning to get me a bathplug and chain for my arse. Still, it gave me the chance to see a bit of the local history, a guided tour from Paul that culminated with a good ten minutes nosing around the back of where The Torrington pub used to be, a very early venue for the Stranglers, now sadly though not surprisingly a Starbucks, and seeing where the ice-cream van they used to carry their gear about in would have been parked and the swing doors they would have struggled getting through with Dave's Hammond organ. Forced myself back onto the booze by mid morning, though basically spent the rest of the day trying not to shit myself, wouldn't recommend it, not as much fun as it sounds. Anyone I met must have thought I looked like I had a bit of a face on, like I was straining to hold in a particularly violent shart.
And I probably was.
But put that thought out of your mind, if you can, by lunchtime Paul had put on an impressive spread of cold meats, chicken, prawns, salads-the works, not to mention all the booze, as the smoking area outside his gaff filled up with a constant stream of smiling faces, all enjoying the buzz and the warm Autumn sunshine. Paul was in fine form, the perfect host, Stranglers on constant rotation on the HiFi, filling every glass as they emptied, the previous nights drinking spree a piece of piss for him to handle. Got introduced to Paul's lovely mate from work Yvonne, who first saw the band back in the 70's, in a sweaty little pub the size of the inside of a matchbox, and who's loved Paul dragging her to the gigs in more recent years.
Too soon though it was time to fill the mini-bus that had been waiting a bit long outside the door and a quick jaunt into the big smoke. Not quick enough for two particularly weak bladdered passengers (who shall remain nameless) who could just about hang on -crossing their legs, eyes, fingers and toes until they could jump out into the nearest hotel urinal- the resulting groan of pleasure as we, sorry, they made their merciful release could be heard all the way back to the bus, and gives me shivers even now. Still, we were back on the bus again soon enough, and it was a short hop from there to the Spread Eagle pub in Camden, our pre-gig meeting spot. It was second wind time for me for a while, as the bar filled up and spread out smoking into the street and the Black & White album pumped from the speakers inside. Lovely spot for any bird watchers out there too, I seem to recall, what with the great view of the ladies gym across the road. Happy smiling faces everywhere, all decked out in Stranglers t-shirts- brilliant vibe.
Spoke to a few folk outside the pub who weren't going that night, just happened to be out for a pint and got caught up in the buzz, but most of them assured me that they had seen the band back in the mid'70's, playing a sweaty little pub the size of a fag box. Again, too soon, it was time to take the trek to The Roundhouse, and what had been billed as the Main Event. The walk to the gig turned out to be an added bonus, Camden on a warm Sunday night was heaving with all manner of freaks, weirdoes, reprobates and butterflies. And not all of them in Stranglers tshirts either mind. It was a great sight for the tourists to see.
Got inside, saw the end of John Cooper Clarke's set, he told a couple of good jokes and got a great reception I thought. Band comes on, I jump up and down, get covered in a constant spray of lager, jumped about a bit more, got hot, escaped to the bar, sat down, cooled off, watched the band some more, jumped about some more, got covered in more lager, flicked the v's at the overhead camera (they were filming for a DVD) - repeat for about a set and a half and stagger out through the throng at the end to the fresh air in the street.
By the time I hit the Marathon bar, (a kebab shop, basically, but with drink and "entertainment"and the final port of call on that day's busy schedule) across the road from The Roundhouse, I was more than flagging, starting to dream about my kip and my guts were still playing up from all the abuse of the past couple of nights. Even a few hours sleep on the De-flatable mattress back at Pauls was starting to look like nirvana. I mean- kebab, chips, booze, a room full of fucken mad characters and boisterous Stranglers fans all on fine form, with a rockabilly cat from hell playing live and slurring out some top tunes and strange guitar licks as a sound-track- on any other night I would have been in my element, I just wish could have drunk more but I'd burnt out by that stage, still sweating like a papist from the gig. Fucken old lightweight that I am. Everyone else was having the time of their lives thought, then it was a taxi back to Paul's with him and three others that were crashing at his, a small aperitif, then a couple of hours trying to sleep though a cacophony of farts, belching, coughing and finally snoring from a certain dood who shall remain nameless. Next morning Gizz commented that he hadn't realised the Tube ran underneath Paul's gaff, obviously mistaking it's floor shaking rumble for all the racket that had came from a now bright eyed again dood who shall remain Martin. Gizz and his best mate Greg were like a comedy double act at times, I was chuckling to myself later at their routine in the greasy spoon cafe the next morning.
We all went for the traditional pick-me-up breakfast of Kings known as Fullys - a good sized portion of Sausage, Beans, Bacon, Egg, Toast etc etc etc that filled our plates, whilst Greg, and I'm sure he wouldn't mind me saying this, who is of a slightly fuller figure than the rest of us, went for what was advertised on the menu as The Big Breakfast, which was basically what we had, only 3 times bigger and with chips. Gizz took a look at him as he was happily tucking in, shook his head and quipped, "I don't know where you put it mate." "In my mouth!" was Greg's instant reply.
Within the hour they were driving off with Martin in the back of the car and me and Paul were back into the city for a traditional English dish called an Italian (just chips for me). Again fantastic company - and a constant stream of great tales and mad experiences gained following The Stranglers for years and miles from all there, from the extremes of youth and it's exuberance from Lucy who is 14 and goes to all the gigs with her just as fanatical Dad Sid, right up to the haggard, senile ramblings of Paul himself.
Everyone I met, every single person I met for the gig, was either a total gent or a classy lady, every one of them a star. The community was vibrant.

Others I also met were: The guy on the bus to the airport on my way for the flight down, who I hadn't seen for about 20 odd years and we had a nice Stranglers chinwag.
Daniel, the "guitar playing" Guitar Man, a sort of zombie Eddie Tenpole with a repertoire to die for (and I think he might have already) and the frenzied fingers and musical dexterity of Les Dawson. His intense speedy stare haunts me even now.
Quentin Crisp and all the other Daniel groupies that strutted their considerable stuff to their hero's notes, both good and bum.
The old Rasta guy from The Marathon that was full of worldly wisdom and who had seen the Stranglers back in '77, in a sweaty matchbox sized pub in the area.
There was the toothless old scamp that tried in vain to sell Martin a ticket all through the Camden streets, unaware he was just being strung along for our amusement.
The mohawked guy and his straighter looking mate who were selling their homemade fanzine outside after the gig, in the spirit of '77 D.I.Y. Both of whom, despite not looking nearly old enough, claimed to have first seen the band back in the '70's, in some sweaty pub back-room there abouts.
I met so many characters, the crustie looking guy who pointed me the right way on the first Tube train (who had seen the band in Germany in the 90's), the Irish bloke outside having a quiet Guinness before his local was taken over by Stranglers fans, and who had seen the band back before he had moved to London, but, as I said before, the real stars were all the Stranglers fans that I was luckily enough to meet and get the chance to talk to.
Which reminds me, as an added bonus as I was winding my way home on Guy Fawkes Night, the weekend safely tucked away in the memory banks for many years viewing pleasure, I could look down from the plane over clear starry skies to the cities of London, Manchester and Glasgow as they were lit up with a constant volley of fireworks that seemed to unite and link the country.

Seemed a fitting finale to a fucken fantastic weekend actually.