Another week, another night out, and yet another sold‑out gig, this time courtesy of Macclesfield’s very own cultural ambassadors, The Macc Lads. Yes, the self‑proclaimed “rudest, crudest, lewdest, drunkest band in Christendom”… and honestly, they’re being modest. These lads don’t just live up to their reputation; they treat it like an Olympic sport.

Trying to find a more irreverent, foul‑mouthed, politically incorrect band would be like trying to find Tofu in a kebab shop, technically possible, but why would you want to? Their entire songwriting philosophy revolves around four sacred pillars: binge drinking, sex, fighting, and chips and gravy. High art this is not, but they deliver it with such enthusiasm you can’t help but admire the commitment. It’s like watching a 24 hour pub crawl set to a punk rock soundtrack.

Despite the band having existed since 1981, I somehow managed to avoid seeing them live until November 2025, when we ventured to The Underground in Stoke, a venue so small and intimate it felt less like a gig and more like being trapped inside someone’s pint glass. Within minutes of the band hitting the stage, the entire room was drenched in a constant monsoon of airborne beer, most of which was enthusiastically launched toward vocalist Muttley McLad (real name Tristan O’Neill), who took it with the weary dignity of a man who has long accepted that lager is his natural habitat.

And here’s the weird part: despite enjoying their music for basically my entire adult life, I don’t own a single record, CD, or cassette by them. Not one. Nothing. My entire fandom is built on vibes, hearsay, and whatever songs I’ve accidentally absorbed through osmosis in pubs and clubs over the years. Is that weird… or is that actually the most authentic way to appreciate The Macc Lads?

Honestly, it might be the latter. Owning physical media feels far too respectable for a band who’ve been banned from more venues than most people have had hot dinners. And not just one or two places either, we’re talking a grand tour of “No, absolutely not”: Macclesfield, London, Hull, Blackpool, Huddersfield, Cornwall, Bury, Newcastle, Colchester, Leeds, Northampton, Cleethorpes, Bolton, Lincoln, Wigan, Portsmouth, Mansfield, Norwich, Cheltenham… basically everywhere with a postcode and a functioning fire exit.

So imagine my surprise, no, my shock, when I realised venues near me were still brave enough to book them. Maybe it’s a Midlands thing. We’re not exactly known for being delicate little flowers. We’re a sturdy, battle‑hardened bunch who’ve survived decades of questionable weather, questionable football, and even more questionable nightlife. A few rude and offensive lyrics aren’t going to send us running for the fainting couch any time soon.

Oh, and did I mention they’re also banned from entering the USA? Yes, the entire country. The land of the free, home of the brave… except for when The Macc Lads are involved though apparently. At this point, I’m half‑convinced they’re collecting bans pretty much in the same way that some people collect Pokémon cards.

Sonia and I rolled into Bilston about an hour and a half before the doors were due to open, and because we know Bilston far too well, we’d already agreed to avoid every pub in town in the same way you’d avoid scratching a suspicious rash. Now, I’m not saying every single pub in Bilston is as rough as a badger’s backside… Lovely people, I’m sure, it’s just not the sort of place you pop into for a quiet artisan beer and a chat about the economy.

So instead, we made a beeline for Noddy’s Bar, the cosy little drinking hole attached to the venue itself. Perfect plan. Foolproof. Except when we got there, it looked about as open as a bank vault on Christmas Day. The lights were on, yes, but there was absolutely no sign of life. Sonia tried the door. Locked. Deadlocked. Impenetrable. For a moment, we genuinely thought we’d have to brave a Bilston pub after all. Then as if summoned by sheer desperation, a member of staff materialised behind the bar and pointed to a sign in the window: “Please use rear entrance”. Turns out we were just the first to arrive… also turns out, we’re not very good when it comes to reading signs in pub windows.

Crisis averted. Dignity intact. And most importantly, no unexpected encounters with Bilston’s finest.

Once we’d completed what felt like a six‑mile expedition around the entire perimeter of Bilston, we finally reached the back door of the venue and made our way inside. There we were greeted by the very same member of staff: a smiley, chatty young lady who looked genuinely pleased to be at work. I know, I was shocked too. She didn’t just tolerate serving us; she seemed delighted about it, as if pouring drinks for strangers was her favourite hobby.

It made a refreshing change. So often at music venues you get bar staff who look like they’ve been forced into service at gun‑point. You ask for a pint and they stare at you like you’ve personally ruined their evening. Some of them have such powerful negative energy they could probably curdle milk at twenty paces. They don’t just kill the vibe, they drain the bubbles from your pint through sheer attitude alone. But not this one. She was a little ray of sunshine in an otherwise world of sticky floors, dodgy toilet door locks, and overpriced watered down beer.

Even better, they sold Guinness. Sure, it was from a can, but at that point I wasn’t about to get picky. Beggars can’t be choosers, and frankly, in Bilston, beggars usually end up getting mugged, so I was just grateful for anything vaguely resembling stout.

As more and more people started to pile in, including our good friends Steve and Kelly, the sound system kicked into gear with the likes of Sham 69, The Anti‑Nowhere League, and The Ramones, the holy trinity of “let’s get everyone warmed up before the chaos begins”. The whole bar suddenly felt like the happiest place on earth, as if Disneyland had swapped Mickey Mouse for middle‑aged punks and replaced it’s candy floss with free alcohol.

There was a glorious mix of humanity gathering: aged skinheads comparing boot polish techniques, punks with enough studs to interfere with aircraft navigation, rockers, metalheads, and your everyday Joe Public who had possibly wandered in by mistake. And that’s one of the things I genuinely love about Macc Lads gigs, there’s absolutely zero snobbery. None. Zilch. Everyone’s welcome… well, anyone over 18 anyway. It’s like the world’s most chaotic family gathering, except with more tattoos and significantly worse language.

At one point I genuinely thought I’d wandered into a school reunion, except there were fewer people there pretending that they’re “doing really well, actually.” Everywhere I looked there were faces I hadn’t seen in years. Old rocker mates I’ve known for 30‑plus years (though we did bump into them at The Macc Lads gig in Stoke last year as well, so maybe they’re just stalking us). Then there were the skinheads and ex‑skinheads who I’ve known for almost two decades, still dressing the part and walking round like they’re expecting things to kick off, and I even spotted a few familiar faces from the football, which really completed the “accidental reunion” vibe.

At precisely 7:15pm, a full 15 minutes before the doors were supposed to open, the sheer number of bodies piling up outside must’ve convinced the venue that a riot was imminent, because suddenly the doors swung open early. It felt less like a polite invitation and more like “RELEASE THE HOUNDS!” than anything else.

We all slowly but surely filtered out of Noddy’s Bar into the main venue, along with the rather impressive queue that had formed outside. And that’s when Sonia spotted them: two of the very few chairs in existence. Not just any old chairs, but thrones. She lunged for them with the determination of someone competing in an international furniture‑snatching event, dragging them across the room like her life depended on it. Unfortunately, this didn’t go unnoticed by security staff, and they were having none of it.

They marched over and politely but firmly instructed her to put the chairs back where she’d found them. Sonia tried pleading her case, quite passionately, I might add, but this was one battle she was never going to win. So, defeated but dignified, we retreated back to the wall where the chairs had originally been stationed. All good though. The security were polite, professional, and not at all the chair‑police tyrants we briefly imagined. And in all fairness, the chairs’ original location had a half descent view of the stage, and was much closer to the bar… so honestly, I was more than happy.

It’s at this point my good mate Steve (yes, another Steve, also from the football) turned up safe and sound after his visit to Bilston’s finest (and only) Wetherspoon’s establishment. He’s a hardcore Macc Lads devotee who’s been going to their gigs for almost 40 years. At this point he’s basically an unofficial band member, just without the instruments and/or talent.

He knows the band personally and usually ends up backstage after the show, which is impressive… though I’m still not entirely sure whether that counts as a badge of honour or a cry for help. It’s a fine line. A very fine line. In fact, at Steve’s request, I actually messaged Lurch (guitarist Andy Lewis) before the gig started to warn him that Steve was in the building. Not “Steve’s coming to say hello,” not “Steve’s excited for the show,” but a full‑on pre‑warning simply that he was there.

We spent a solid 30 minutes or so chatting not about the band, not about football, not even about the price of beer, but about our shared love of Ancestry. Proper Rock ’n’ Roll behaviour, I know. While everyone else was gearing up for a night of loud music and lager showers, we were deep in conversation about who was related to who through Uncle Pete’s first wife’s fourth marriage.

And then, just as I was about to explain how Cousin Margaret is technically her own aunt (long story), we were rudely interrupted by the first band. I’d been so excited about seeing The Macc Lads again that I hadn’t even realised there was a support act. They appeared out of nowhere, like a surprise pop quiz you didn’t revise for, and suddenly the room was full of noise, guitars, and the collective realisation that our family history seminar had come to an abrupt end.

I hadn’t seen Stoke‑based Wasted Life play live for a fair few years, and I’ll be honest, I’m not exactly up to speed with their back catalogue. But they’re a cracking live band, the sort of proper Streetpunk outfit that can warm up a crowd faster than a dodgy microwave. The highlight for me was their cover of the Stiff Little Fingers track “Wasted Life” I couldn’t help but think, “Now where have I heard that name before…” It’s always reassuring when a band performs a song that doubles as both a tribute and a handy reminder of who they are.

Funnily enough, if we hadn’t been in Bilston for The Macc Lads gig that night, we’d have been in Birmingham watching Stiff Little Fingers instead. So really, it was a win‑win situation.

By the time The Macc Lads were due to hit the stage, the venue was packed to the rafters. 700 sweaty drunken people crammed into what was once the Drill Hall for the 6^th Staffordshire Regiment of the Territorial Army, all stood shoulder to shoulder trying to get a better glimpse of the stage. Honestly, I’ve been to lots of gigs at the Robin 2 over the years, but I’ve never seen it as packed as it was for this gig. It certainly made getting to the toilet or bar much more of an effort.

Finally, Muttley, Lurch, and Pablo (drummer Shaun Salmon) took to the stage, and the vulgarity began in earnest. It was like someone had flipped a switch labelled “Right then, let’s lower the tone.” Classics such as Fluffy Pup, Julie the Schooly, Blackpool, and Miss Macclesfield rolled out one after another, each one giving way to Muttley’s trademark ramblings, offensive, insulting, and absolutely hilarious. The fans don’t just tolerate it; they expect it. It’s part of the charm. A Macc Lads gig without Muttley verbally abusing the room would feel like Christmas without the King’s Speech, technically still Christmas, but with something’s definitely missing.

It wasn’t long before the inaugural beer bombardment began, though thankfully nowhere near the biblical flood levels we experienced in Stoke the previous year. That night felt like being baptised in lager whether you wanted to be or not. Maybe the reduced beer‑throwing in Bilston was a reflection of the bar’s prices… or maybe the beer at The Underground was so bad last year that even the most dedicated pint‑chucker thought twice before weaponising it again. Either way, the chaos had officially begun, and it was glorious.

We were all more than happy to bellow along at the top of our lungs as more classics rolled out, Beer and Sex and Chips ’n’ Gravy, Charlotte, Barrel’s Round, Nagasaki Sauce, basically the full Macc Lads starter pack. Every so often another pint would take flight in Muttley’s direction, but thankfully only in plastic cups.

And the it happened. That moment every gig‑goer dreads. It was time for me to battle my way through the crowd to the toilet to make room for more alcohol. A noble mission. A necessary mission. A mission that, historically, has terrible timing. Sure enough, the second, and I mean the very second I stepped out of the room, there it was: Sweaty Betty blasting at full volume in all it’s glory. The big one. The song everyone waits to hear… I’d done it again. In true Daz tradition, I’d missed the encore… as well as a fight apparently!

As I stepped out of the toilet, I was immediately confronted by a tidal wave of happy, sweaty, drunken punks, thugs, and herberts all surging toward me. The show was over. The gig was done. The crowd was pouring out with the enthusiasm of a bunch of people who’d just survived something mildly traumatic though thoroughly enjoyable.

But then a far more serious realisation hit me: my Guinness, my lovely, beautiful, freshly poured ice cold Guinness was still inside, patiently awaiting my return. Alone. Vulnerable. Possibly being eyed up by some opportunistic lager‑goblin… There was only one thing I could do. I’d have to fight my way back in. Elbows out, head down, full on rugby‑scrum mode… Or… I could just wait a minute or two for the crowd to thin out while saying goodnight to everyone I’d bumped into earlier that evening. Which is exactly what I did. Much safer. Much more civilised. And, crucially, far less likely to end with me being flattened by some big bloke called Kev who smells like he’s in desperate need of a shower.

And then it dawned on me… I remembered I’d also left my beautiful wife Sonia in there as well, so happy days!… surely Sonia and Steve would be keeping a watchful eye over my beloved pint.

It’s whilst waiting for this crowd to disperse that I also bumped into my cousin Neil and his eldest lad Jake who’d also been at the gig. Classic. You can put us all in the same room for two hours and we’ll miss each other entirely, but the second the lights come on… boom! there they are, as if they’ve suddenly re-spawned in some sort of multi-player computer game.

At my earliest opportunity, I slipped back into the venue while security were conveniently looking the other way, a manoeuvre so smooth I briefly considered a career in espionage, and made my way over to Sonia and my pint. Still waiting. Still cold. Still calling out my name like some sort of malty, hoppy siren. I may have missed the encore, but this… this was my moment. I was ready to savour every second of it, to cherish it, to cradle it like a newborn… but nope! I picked up the pint and, in the blink of an eye, it was gone. Downed in one foul swoop. Less “savouring the moment” more “executing it”.

But needs must. We had places to be. And more importantly, there was JD to be consumed, and that, my friends, is a mission that waits for no one. We said our goodbyes to the member of bar staff that had welcomed us at the begging of the evening and thanked her for her service, or at least I did anyway, and then headed outside to wait for our taxi… It was a Friday night, and it was relatively early which means only one thing… to The Giffard Arms please driver, as Steve and Kelly, and Sonia and I all piled in.

During our little mini road trip, my phone suddenly pinged, a message from my mate Steve (football Steve, not to be confused with the other Steve). It contained two photos, but not just any old photos… oh no, there he was again: one picture with Muttley, the other with Lurch. Backstage. Smiling like a man who’s just discovered a loop-hole in the restraining order, not so much meeting the band anymore, more like haunting them instead. I reckon they’ve just accepted their fate now… He’s there to stay.

Unlike after last week’s Mötley Crüde gig in Cannock, The Giff was already pretty full by the time we arrived, in fact, it was standing room only. So we spent a good 20 minutes propping up the bar like four decorative pillars, waiting for people to either go home or wander off in search of another bar. And that’s when it happened. The very second a couple stood up to leave, Sonia, still slightly traumatised from her earlier failed attempt to rearrange the furniture at the venue, suddenly locked onto the empty seats like a hawk hunting its prey. Before I could even blink, she was off faster than a ferret up a trouser leg, absolutely determined that no one, and I mean no one, was getting those seats before we did… I’ve never been prouder. The girl did good. Honestly, I’ve never seen a woman move so fast for furniture… It was majestic… It was terrifying… It was effective.

We all chatted away like a bunch of slightly intoxicated philosophers trying to put the world to rights, the kind of deep, meaningful conversations that only ever happen after several drinks and absolutely collapse under sober scrutiny. Me and Steve sticking to our usual JD and cokes, Sonia with her usual vodka and lemonade, and Kelly… well, Kelly was on a completely different journey.

First she appeared with a massive fishbowl of something called Cowboy From Hell (whatever that is). Then she followed it up with a giant glass of Sunburn (again, no clue). And then another Cowboy From Hell (nope, still no idea). A few drinks later however, Steve and I did go full on pirate mode and opted to switch to spiced rum instead, just for a change.

As always, the music was absolutely top‑notch, proper classic rock all night, but there was one moment where I genuinely considered walking out, disposing of my record collection, and retiring from nightlife altogether, when Sonia wandered up to Baby Mike (as we call him), who was on DJ duties, and asked him to play something by The Almighty. A perfectly reasonable request. A classic band. A staple of any self‑respecting rock playlist. His reply?… “Who? … I’ve never heard of them”.

He looked back at her with the blank expression of a man trying to solve a maths problem using nothing but a potato. I swear I felt my soul leave my body. How to make people feel ancient in three seconds flat. Maybe we should start staying in more, putting our feet up with a nice hot mug of cocoa, and leaving the discotheques and pop music to the youth of today. “Never heard of them”… Wash your mouth out with soap, lad.

Around half one, Steve and Kelly said their goodnights and headed home like sensible adults who value sleep and functioning livers. That left Sonia and I to deal with the late‑night cast of characters who always seem to appear out of The Giffs woodwork during the early hours.

First up was the same wobbly, intoxicated biker we’d encountered last weekend, still swaying from side to side like a washing machine on its final spin cycle. Then there was a Hells Angels hangaround who suddenly decided me and him were now best friends. And then, just to balance things out, we somehow ended up chatting to two absolutely lovely primary school teachers who clearly wandered into The Giff by mistake but loved it so much they decided to stay.

Before we knew it, last orders had been called, the lights had come up with all the subtlety of a police drugs raid, and suddenly it was 3:00am, that magical time when your body gently whispers, “Go home you idiot”… so we did.

As we walked down the street to wait for our taxi home, I was still deep in conversation with my new HA BFF, because apparently I collect biker mates now, when out of nowhere this very intoxicated random woman appeared. Before I could even process what was happening, she’d linked her arm through mine and started walking with me as if we were off to high-school prom together.

Who was she? No idea. What did she look like? Irrelevant. How long did it last? About 2 seconds. All I really remember is Sonia storming toward us with the energy of a woman who has absolutely had enough for one night, introducing herself as my wife through gritted teeth. You know that tone where someone is smiling but their eyes are saying, “I will end you”? Yeah, that one.

Honestly, if this random woman had witnessed Sonia during Chairgate at The Robin the night before, she’d have known better than to grab her man’s arm, or any part of him for that matter, not without a full risk assessment and a signed waiver anyway. In fact, considering the circumstances, I reckon she got off quite lightly. Had Sonia been in a really bad mood, they’d probably still be looking for that woman’s teeth in the gutter now… maybe they should look for them next to her morals and dignity.