When it comes to seeing Ferocious Dog play live, I guess it’s fair to say we didn’t just arrive fashionably late to the party, we turned up a whole 12 years after the time and date stated on the invite. The band have been tearing up stages since 2011, yet somehow, we didn’t manage to witness them in person until September 2023 at The Robin 2 in Bilston.

Fast‑forward to 2026, and suddenly we’re scrambling to cram in as many gigs as time, money, and the unpredictable whims of family life will allow, on what turns out to be the bands last ever year of touring!, because after 15 years of noisy Punk Folk, sweat‑soaked, sticky venues, and more late‑night drives than any human should legally endure, the band have finally decided to call it a day. It feels a little like we’ve starting watching a TV show half way through the final season.

How on earth I managed to miss their set on the Sophie Stage at Bloodstock Festival back in 2022 is beyond me… honestly, I have no explanation. It was either a cataclysmic oversight on my part, a moment of festival and/or alcohol‑induced brain fog, or I was simply watching another band that I absolutely had to see on another stage, probably someone I can’t even remember now. Classic me: missing a band I’d end up loving, all because I was off chasing something new and shiny.

Since that Bilston gig however, we’ve somehow transformed from “those people who discovered Ferocious Dog 12 years too late” into “people who now follow them around the country like enthusiastic but slightly disorganised groupies”, managing to catch them live six more times to date (including this gig).

Highlights include their headline set at the bands very own Dog Fest in Boston, Lincolnshire in October 2024, a day which ended in me spending the night in the Range Rover outside the B&B, despite us having a room, with no glasses, no mobile phone, and only one shoe for company (long story!), an acoustic set at the Castle & Falcon in Birmingham in March 2025, where things were so chilled and laid back, we briefly forgot that the band play Punk Folk, and in September 2025, as a very cut-back acoustic trio, under the guise of Red Ken & Sam Wood in a pub cellar at lunchtime in Barnoldswick (pronounced Barlick for some reason), a strange but quaint little village somewhere in Lancashire… picture an episode of Midsomer Murders, but with less emphasis on the murders… well, as far as we’re aware anyway.

Not forgetting the bands full-on, plugged-in shows at Wolverhampton’s KK’s Steel Mill and The Robin 2 (Bilston) in October 2024 and October 2025 respectively, though whether or not this gives us the right to class ourselves as fully fledged Hell Hounds, the bands affectionate name for us fans is open for debate. I’m guessing those fans who’ve been there from day one are probably only ever going to see us as the lesser loved runts of the litter, but in all honesty, I can live with that.

After a week of the car sulking on the driveway like a Victorian child with “a delicate constitution,” her suspension in tatters in a way that suggested she’d simply had enough, things were actually starting to look up. A carefree metro ride into Birmingham and a couple of pre‑gig pints in Wetherspoons with Steve, it was shaping up to be the sort of plan that deserved its own theme tune… possibly with a sax solo.

But then, less than 48 hours before tram‑o’clock, disaster struck. Within minutes of lovingly donating £570 to our now‑regular mechanic, someone who at this point really ought to be sending us a Christmas card, Sonia suddenly decided to chuck the entire plan straight into the bin. With the swagger of someone who had just single‑handedly funded a small garage’s annual turnover, she announced she’d be driving to the gig instead… and picking Steve up on the way, as if this had been the plan all along and we’d simply misremembered reality.

In hindsight, of course, not getting the car fixed in time would’ve ruined the entire weekend, especially since it just so happened to be Sonia’s birthday weekend and we’d made plans to get away for a couple of days. And if there’s one thing the universe loves, it’s turning a minor inconvenience into a full‑blown relationship‑testing catastrophe. So yes, clouds and silver linings, and all that…

In classic Anslow fashion, we left the house later than planned, not just “a bit late,” but the kind of late where you start mentally drafting your apology speech. We had precisely 7 minutes to complete a 3.2‑mile dash to Steve’s, which is only achievable if you either bend the laws of physics or break the laws of the road… Sonia did neither.

I suggested calling Steve to warn him that we were, shockingly, running behind schedule as usual. But Sonia, radiating the confidence of someone who once beat Google Maps in a fistfight, assured me we’d make it. Me? I wasn’t convinced. This was now a sport. A challenge. A battle of optimism versus reality. Game on.

We arrived at Steve’s in 8 minutes flat. So yes, Sonia, lovely effort… but I’m absolutely claiming victory on this one.

For reasons known only to itself, the SatNav decided to guide us to the venue’s neighbouring car park using the most awkward, round‑the‑houses route imaginable. Still, we had time to spare before the doors opened, especially now that our pre‑gig pint plans had been ceremonially launched out the window. At least we had a bit of Ferocious Dog blasting away to keep spirits up… that, and a car crash to stare at.

No, not us! We weren’t the ones auditioning for Fast & Furious: West Midlands Drift. Some absolute genius had apparently decided that the slip road was optional until the very last millisecond, swerved across the hatched markings at warp speed, and introduced their car to the concrete barriers in a very up‑close and personal way. The front end looked like it had been folded by an origami enthusiast with anger issues. The car itself? A write‑off. No question.

In all seriousness, though, we genuinely hoped everyone involved was okay. There are plenty of times we’d have pulled over to help, but others were already on the scene, and someone was clearly on the phone to the emergency services. So, after a quick moment of “bloody hell,” we made the decision to carry on with our journey.

By the time we’d parked up, escaped the multi‑storey, and located the exit, it was practically door‑opening time. But as we stepped out of the car park, we were greeted by not one… not two… not three… but six separate queues of humans, all snaking off in different directions… Six queues. Three shows. One building. What sort of venue hosts three different gigs on three different stages at the same time on the same night?, The O2 Academy Birmingham, that’s who.

And at the centre of this swirling vortex of confusion was one young staff member, bravely attempting to direct the incoming tidal wave of music lovers into their correct lanes. Bless her, she looked like someone had handed her a whistle, a high‑vis vest, and absolutely no instructions whatsoever. She was doing her best, but the whole operation had the energy of a school lollipop lady trying to coordinate Spaghetti Junction during rush hour. Luckily, help was on hand, and a member of security was able to point us in the right direction, which just so happened to be the shortest queue there… Bonus!!

Before we knew it, we were through the doors, up the stairs, and at the bar, well, me and Steve were anyway. Sonia had already vanished like a woman on a mission to secure our sacred front-row spot on the barrier. Meanwhile, me and Steve were doing the important work: standing at the bar, ordering drinks, and pretending we were helping.

We already knew the O2 doesn’t sell Guinness or Jack Daniels, which frankly should be illegal under some sort of “basic human rights” clause, and my stomach was in absolutely no mood for a lukewarm, generic ale sloshing around in a plastic cup like sad dishwater. So we pivoted to the next best thing: ice‑cold, 100% chemically engineered cider that has probably never been within a five‑mile radius of an actual apple. But did we do the sensible thing and just order a pint each? Of course not. We went straight in for the two‑pint option like men on a mission, men with purpose, men who had accepted their fate and chosen chaos. And naturally, we couldn’t forget Sonia’s Pepsi Max.

I’ll be honest, I’d never even heard of the support act Noble Jacks before the day of the gig. My entire pre‑show research consisted of watching one, maybe two YouTube videos in between doing actual life admin, so my expectations were basically none existent with maybe a hint of fiddle thrown in for good measures.

What I did manage to learn however, was that Noble Jacks sometimes appear as a full 5‑piece, fiddle‑led, high‑energy, foot‑stompin’ folk‑Americana band… and other times as a 2‑piece, fiddle‑led, high‑energy, foot‑stompin’ folk‑Americana duo. Exactly the same vibe, just fewer humans. And tonight, we were getting the streamlined, compact, travel‑friendly duo version.

I’ve got to admit, they were really good, properly impressive, in fact. They had the crowd warmed up for Ferocious Dog with absolute ease, like they’d been hired specifically to raise everyone’s heart rate before the main event. And this wasn’t just any crowd, either. Oh no. This was a crowd that now included none other than former England international and Notts Forest/Newcastle/West Ham/Man City legend Stuart “Psycho” Pearce, and when Psycho Pearce turns up to your gig, you know you’re doing something right.

Noble Jacks had every single person tapping their feet and clapping their hands in perfect unison, and I don’t recall hearing a single bad word said about them. They were funny… they were entertaining… they were the perfect opener. Had I have known they were flogging vinyl that night, they’d have probably convinced me to part with my money easily, but I’d gone out that night with an aim of not buying any merchandise what-so-ever, and I managed to stick to my guns this time around.

After a short break, and far more importantly, a tactical refill at the bar, it was finally time for Ferocious Dog to storm the stage. Their traditional two‑minute warning came blaring through the speakers in the form of Billy Bragg’s There Is Power in a Union, which at this point basically functions as an early‑warning siren for gig‑goers. It’s the musical equivalent of someone shouting, “Oi! Stop faffing about in the toilets and get to the front or you’re gonna miss the start!” The room quickly snapping to attention. Drinks downed. Bladders abandoned, and people moving with the urgency of a fire drill.

Before we knew it, Ferocious Dog had already hit the stage, tearing straight into their opening track, Cry of the Celt, as if they’d been fired from a cannon. They really never fail to amaze me with the amount of energy this band bring to the stage… it tires me out just watching them.

From a set list chosen by us Hell Hounds, and not the band, the night turned into a glorious musical pick‑and‑mix. Classics like Victims, Broken Soldier, and Cover Me blended seamlessly with the band’s lesser‑played gems such as Black Legged Miner, Protest Singer, and Bedlam Boys. It was like someone had handed Ferocious Dog their complete discography and said, “Surprise us,” and they replied, “Okay then! hold our cider”.

Hearing songs I’d never heard them perform live before was an absolute treat, and they delivered every single one with the same pride, fire, and “we‑could-do-this-in-our-sleep” energy they always bring. It genuinely felt like we were witnessing something special, the kind of gig where halfway through you think, “Yep… this one’s going in the memory bank”.

As always, and rightfully so, Ken (Ken Bonsall, vocals) took a moment to pay tribute to his late son, Lee. It’s a part of every Ferocious Dog show that never loses its weight. Lee had served in Afghanistan from the age of just 18, and when he returned home and tried to settle back into civilian life, he faced the unbearable burden of post‑traumatic stress disorder after witnessing the loss of a close friend to a sniper. In 2012, at just 24 years old, Lee tragically took his own life.

Lee’s story sits at the very heart of what Ferocious Dog stand for. His memory lives on through The Glass / Lee’s Tune, a song that the fans always receive with deep respect. It’s more than a track, it’s a reminder of why the band’s message matters, and why their community feels the way it does. Every time it’s played, you can feel the room shift, just slightly, into something more united, more human, more emotional.

The band also took a moment to honour a late Hell Hound and close friend of theirs, someone whose name I sadly didn’t catch, but whose presence was clearly felt. They dedicated the song Yellow Feather to him, another reminder of just how deeply Ferocious Dog care about their fans. The way they pay tribute, openly, sincerely, without making it feel performative, speaks volumes about who they are. It was another touching moment, full of nothing but love and respect towards others.

More classics rolled out through the night, including some of my all‑time favourite FD songs: Slayed the Traveller, Criminal Justice, Sus Laws, and Slow Motion Suicide to name but a few. All of which were punctuated by Ken’s ongoing public‑service announcements reminding us that Ferocious Dog are not a political band… they just play political songs. This time adding the tag line “…which you chose” just for good measures.

Of course, any seasoned Hell Hound knows the night isn’t truly over until Ken unleashes his sacred, legally‑binding solo performance of Nelly the Elephant. At this point it’s less a song and more a ritual. A rite of passage. A spiritual cleansing. And, without fail, it sends everyone home grinning like they’ve just witnessed something mildly unhinged but at the same time, undeniably glorious.

So that was it: the bands had left the stage, the lights were up, the bar was closed, and we were being gently herded out of the building like confused livestock who’d just realised the fun was over. We walked back towards the car park after just six pints of what I can only describe as apple‑flavoured industrial solvent, surprisingly palatable, pretty much in the same way as licking a battery is “surprisingly tingly” (please don’t try this at home, or anywhere else for that matter).

Clutched in my hand was a copy of FD’s set list, gifted to me by a wonderfully kind fan who clearly decided I looked like someone who needed it more than she did. It was very much appreciated.

Tonight there would be no traditional pilgrimage to The Giff to round things off, there would be no Jack Daniels, not even for “medicinal purposes”, despite my repeated claims that it cures absolutely everything, and most shockingly of all, there would be no late night. Instead, we had the far more sensible mission of dropping Steve home and then getting ourselves tucked up for what could almost be described as an early night. Disgraceful behaviour, really.

Why the sudden burst of responsibility? Because we had a 90‑mile road trip looming the next morning. Not exactly an expedition worthy of Bear Grylls, but still far enough that I didn’t fancy tackling it while dehydrated, sleep‑deprived, and hung-over. And what was this epic journey for, you ask? A cultural excursion? A family visit? A spiritual retreat? No. Absolutely not.

It was a 90‑mile drive to Bath to see a band we hadn’t seen in quite a while. And which band would that be? Well… errr… Ferocious Dog obviously. Because apparently just one Ferocious Dog gig in any 24 hour period just isn’t enough, not for people like us anyway.