There was a plan. There was always a plan. In fact, it was a magnificent plan. A plan that involved packing our bag before heading out to last night’s Ferocious Dog gig in Birmingham. One that future us could glide effortlessly into the following morning like well‑organised adults who have their whole lives in order.

The plan promised an early night. A sensible night. A night where we’d drift off peacefully and wake up to the sound of the 8am alarm feeling refreshed and radiant. There’d be time for a long hot shower, a calm, relaxing sit‑down, and a proper breakfast that would set us up just nicely until teatime.

Then, at 11am sharp, we’d set off for Bath. A serene, leisurely drive down south, maybe even stopping for a bit of sightseeing on the way, like the carefree, whimsical travellers we imagined ourselves to be. Then we’d roll up to the hotel at 3pm, check in like absolute champions, and bask in the glow of a plan flawlessly executed.

That was the plan. That oh so beautiful plan. That well thought out, multi-award-winning plan.

And then reality struck!

I found myself lying wide awake in bed well before 7am, staring at the ceiling as if it had personally betrayed me, which would’ve been fine had I managed to fall asleep before watching the clock on my mobile phone tick smugly passed 3am. My brain however, had decided that less than four hours sleep was plenty, and that now was the perfect time to remind me that we’d already failed to even start, let-alone complete step one of our master plan.

Not only had we not packed the bag before heading to the gig last night, we hadn’t even chosen which clothes we were taking. Not a single item. Not a sock. Not even a t‑shirt. And certainly nothing ironed. Things were already going pear‑shaped, and then the universe decided to add a soundtrack in the form of the 8am alarm, which was then followed by the first snooze, then the second, then the third… until finally, the fourth prompted Sonia to sit up in bed, yawn, and slowly but surely open her eyes… Still, It was her birthday after all, so I guess she was fully entitled to a bit of a lie in.

It was almost 8:45 before we finally staggered downstairs and put the kettle on, an heroic act that, unfortunately, achieved absolutely nothing. Instead of sparking productivity, the tea simply enabled us to sit there silently sipping away, thinking about all the things we hadn’t done, instead of doing any of the things we desperately needed to do. Time itself meanwhile, was sprinting ahead like it had somewhere much better to be, and before we knew it, 10am had been and gone. Still no shower… Still no clothes ironed or packed… And still nothing that remotely resembled breakfast.

Our 11am departure time had officially been flagged as “delayed”, with a new departure time yet to be determined, and by the time we did actually leave the house, it was 12:30pm, already a full hour and a half behind schedule. Providing of course that the original schedule had ever been anything other than a complete work of pure fiction to begin with.

So far, our plans hadn’t just been derailed. They’d been derailed, set alight, pushed down a hill, and were now lay in a dried river bed at the bottom of a canyon somewhere. Hopefully, this wasn’t an indication of things to come.

Not ones to be easily disheartened, we piled the bags into the back seat of the Range Rover, said our goodbyes, and set off for our little mini-break down in sunny Somerset.

Much to our amazement, as well as our mild suspicion, things were actually starting to look up. The roads and motorways were clear and running smoothly. The weather was dry, with the occasional beam of sunshine dramatically bursting through the clouds. Even the car was behaving itself, despite last week’s suspension‑gate fiasco, and against all odds, we were well and truly on our way to our end destination, and more importantly, nothing had gone wrong… not yet anyway.

As we approached Gloucester Services, Sonia announced that we had plenty of time to stop for a quick break and a hot chocolate, and honestly, who am I to stand between Sonia and a hot chocolate? I’m not that brave. I value my life too much. We pulled in, parked up, and I stayed in the car while Sonia, a woman now on a cocoa‑based mission, headed straight for the farm shop to acquire her beloved beverage.

I’d originally decided I didn’t want anything, but that noble stance lasted approximately three seconds after Sonia opened her door and unleashed the Arctic tundra upon me. One slight gust of cold air and suddenly I was questioning my decision. Damn you, sunshine, with your deceitful, Instagram‑filter glow and your false promises of warmth… Hot chocolate all round it was then.

Once we were back on the road, it wasn’t long before we peeled off the motorway and found ourselves navigating the kind of narrow, winding country lanes that make you question both the width of your car, and the driving abilities of those around you. We drifted through a series of quaint little villages with names like Dunkirk, Petty France, and Pennsylvania, at which point I began to seriously question whether the SatNav had simply malfunctioned, or whether Sonia had quietly decided we were emigrating. I mean, I didn’t remember showing my passport to Border Control even once, let alone boarding a ferry or an aeroplane. Yet here we were, apparently touring the world without having to leave Gloucestershire.

As the lanes grew narrower and narrower, the climb up into the Tog and Little Solsbury Hills got steeper and steeper, so steep, in fact, that my ears popped on several occasions as we neared the top, each one louder than the last, like my head was trying to send out its own distress flares. The usual trick of yawning doing absolutely nothing to relieve the situation.

But no sooner had we triumphantly conquered the ascent, ready to plant a flag and claim the hill as our own, we were immediately hurtling back down the other side, with the city of Bath suddenly sprawled out before us. We’d arrived safe and sound, and without incident.

Once we’d navigated our way through Bath’s charming, Bath‑stone‑clad narrow streets, and the not so charming never ending parade of roadworks, we finally managed to locate our chosen car park for the next couple of days. We triumphantly rolled in, park up, and entered the car’s details into the app, willingly handing over £48 in the process. Still, at just £1 an hour, I suppose it’s not that bad… though I’m fairly sure the car now expects complimentary spa treatments and a continental breakfast.

According to Google Maps, our hotel was a mere 8‑minute stroll from the car park. Eight minutes. Sure. Maybe for someone with the mobility of a mountain goat, carrying nothing heavier than a packet of mints maybe, gracefully gliding across the uneven, uphill terrain like some sort of ballet dancing mammal.

Meanwhile, there’s me: one hand clutching a heavy bag that seemed to gain weight with every step, the other gripping a walking stick like my life depended on it. I lost count of how many times I had to stop during this so‑called “8‑minute stroll.” By the time we finally reached the hotel, a full 25 minutes after leaving the car park, my legs and back felt like they were in bits.

It was at this precise moment that ‘I’ made the executive decision that we’d absolutely, unquestionably, and without a shadow of a doubt, be getting a taxi back to the car park on the return journey. No debate. No negotiation. My spine had spoken.

Within minutes of dumping our bags in the hotel room, we were back out the door and heading straight for The Old Post Office Wetherspoons next door, partly for dinner, but mostly for liquid survival in the form of my first Guinness of the weekend. Imagine my shock when Sonia returned to the table and placed not one, but two pints in front of me. Two. It was as if she instinctively knew the first one wouldn’t even graze the sides on its way down. And she was right, I wasn’t about to disappoint.

But the real plot twist? Sonia herself was drinking alcohol. At this hour. In public. This is such a rare event that I half expected to see a full BBC film crew and David Attenborough rise slowly from behind the bar, whispering into a microphone: “Here we observe the elusive Sonia, engaging in the seldom‑witnessed early‑evening beverage ritual… truly remarkable”… Now try and read that again, but this time without trying to sound like David Attenborough.

Time was plodding on by now, it was creeping ever closer to 6pm, and we had a gig to get to, even if it was the same bands, singing the same songs, in the exact same order as we’d witnessed in Birmingham just 24 hours earlier. This was the final night of Ferocious Dogs final Spring tour, so once dinner had been demolished, we ordered an Uber and headed to the venue, in the hope that the queues wouldn’t be too long.

Queues? What queues? There were no queues. What there was however, was Flan O’Briens Irish Bar right next door. Naturally, we assumed that must be where all the Ferocious Dog fans were hiding… but no. It was practically empty. Just us, a handful of local students, and casually standing there enjoying his Guinness, Ken Bonsall himself. Yes, that Ken Bonsall: Ferocious Dog founding member, lead vocalist, and all‑round top bloke. Just chilling like it was the most normal thing to do in the world.

I’ve got to admit, the Guinness here was fantastic, dangerously fantastic, and at £7.10 a pint, it absolutely should be. At that price, I’m fairly sure it’s legally classified as a luxury item. I’m almost certain that at one point I found myself using my finger to scoop out every last microscopic bubble of froth from the inside of the glass, just to make sure I got my money’s worth. If I could’ve licked the glass without being judged, I probably would have. I’m not surprised that everyone else in there seemed to be making their drinks last as long as humanly possible.

7pm quickly came and went, the venue had opened its doors, and we still hadn’t seen many other Hell Hounds… Ken was still stood at the bar talking with friends and enjoying his pint, and I started to question whether the gig was still actually going ahead.

We said a quick hello to Ken who gave us both one of his now legendary ‘Ken Cuddles’ before we headed next door to the Komedia… a beautifully restored Grade ll listed former cinema now in the trust of a community benefit society… honestly, the architecture and décor was absolutely stunning, and I’d have been just as happy sitting there taking in the beauty of the building, as I would listening to and watching the bands… and then it happened yet again… those mortal words I’m becoming more and more accustomed to as we travel to different music venues around the country… We don’t sell Guinness!… Tragedy! I had no alternative but to try their Bath Rugby Stout, either that or it was another night on the fizzy apple flavoured chemicals, aka cider.

In all fairness, I’d tasted much worse, and I guess beggars can’t be choosers. It was just going to have to do.

I left Sonia in charge of my pint while I nipped off to the Disabled Access toilet to, shall we say, create more storage space for incoming alcohol. But when I returned, both Sonia and my pint had vanished from the bar. Gone. Disappeared. Evaporated. But just as I was about to file a missing drink report, I spotted Sonia at the far end of the room, waving enthusiastically from the front rail like she’d just won a competition. It was beginning to look very much like we were in for yet another front‑row view of the stage for tonight’s gig.

No sooner had I reached Sonia down at the front, I was approached by a bloke in a bright yellow Stiff Little Fingers T‑shirt, who turned to me, looked me dead in the eye, and in the broadest Bristolian dialect imaginable said, “Not the best, is it?”. At first, I had absolutely no idea what he was on about. Then he pointed at my beer and repeated the question, and suddenly it all made sense. Thus began a full‑blown conversation about beers, real ales, stouts, hops, barley, and probably the meaning of life if we’d had another five minutes to spare.

Before I knew it, we’d somehow drifted onto music, which bands we’d seen, which bands we hadn’t, which bands we wanted to see, and it felt like I’d instantly acquired a brand‑new best mate. A best mate I didn’t know I had, didn’t know I needed, and certainly didn’t remember ordering.

I finished my pint, and Sonia disappeared back to the bar for a refill… and that’s when Disaster Mk2 struck. Not only did they not sell Guinness, a crime in itself, but the bar had now run out of Stout completely. Bone dry. Not a drop. And as much as I love a drop or two of Jack Daniels, even I had to admit it was a little early, even for me. So, with a heavy heart and an even heavier sigh, it was back to cider again. Back to another night of heartburn and deep regret.

Then suddenly, the lights went down and Noble Jacks took to the stage, just as they had the night before, only this time something felt different. I’m not sure whether it was because they were on a much bigger stage, or whether it was down to the sound system, but they just didn’t hit quite the same as they did in Birmingham.

Don’t get me wrong, they were still really good, just not as good, If that makes sense. It was like ordering your favourite takeaway two nights in a row: still delicious, still enjoyable, but for reasons unknown, just missing that magical ingredient.

This of course, didn’t stop us from finally buying the two Noble Jacks vinyls we’d heroically resisted the night before. The only catch was that Sonia had to wait for Will Page himself (lead vocals/fiddle) to wander over from the stage to the merch stand beforehand. His face was priceless when he asked whether we’d seen them live before, to which Sonia, without missing a beat, goes: “Yeah! In Birmingham last night”.

I’m not entirely sure whether he momentarily forgot how maps work or genuinely believed Birmingham and Bath were separated by several time zones and an extensive mountain range, but he looked genuinely stunned that we’d travelled “so far” to see the same gig two nights in a row.

Whilst Sonia was off expanding our vinyl collection, I was left talking to… well listening to, my newly self‑appointed BFF. He was still enthusiastically waffling on about bands I’d never heard of, never seen, and possibly never even existed outside of his own imagination.

So you can imagine my sheer joy, borderline spiritual relief, when Billy Bragg’s There Is Power in a Union suddenly blasted through the speakers. Ferocious Dog’s two‑minute warning that they were about to storm the stage, and it had never sounded so good. And then, mercifully, the lights went down once more… I’ve never been so grateful for a band to start in my life.

Now, what can I possibly say about Ferocious Dog that I didn’t already state in my last post?… Absolutely nothing. Not a single new adjective left in the tank. They were equally as energetic, equally as perfect, and equally as awesome as always, and that’s not me being biased, that’s just me being correct.

The whole room was bouncing. Everyone was dancing and clapping along, and little mosh pits were popping up all over the place like whack‑a‑moles but with better rhythm. Even the security staff were nodding their heads in time to the music, and looked genuinely impressed… Even more impressed that they were actually being paid to stand there and enjoy the night. Honestly, if they’d started crowd‑surfing, I really wouldn’t have blamed them.

A few classic FD tracks in and it was time for Ken to launch into his customary ‘Shout Outs’, a sacred ritual at every Ferocious Dog gig… except, of course, for last night’s Birmingham show, where the poor bloke had to skip them entirely because he’d left his notes in the dressing room. But tonight? Oh, tonight he was fully armed with his list, his glasses, and the confidence of a man who had definitely double‑checked his pockets before walking on stage.

First up was a birthday shout‑out and a 550‑strong, full‑volume, slightly‑out‑of‑tune-but-enthusiastic rendition of Happy Birthday for a woman named Estelle. And before the crowd had even finished the final “tooooo youuuuu,” Ken launched straight into a second birthday shout‑out… this time for none other than my beautiful wife, Sonia.

Little did she know, I’d been sneaking around on social media the day before, plotting with the band like some sort of secret agent to make sure the announcement happened. Her face was an absolute masterpiece, somewhere between shock, embarrassment, and “I’m going to kill you later.” She turned a shade of red I’ve genuinely never seen before, not even on a Dulux paint mixing chart. If they could bottle it, I’m sure it’d be called something like Blushing Fury No. 5, or something similar.

She didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or just dive under the nearest table. Meanwhile, I was just relieved she hadn’t twigged beforehand and that the surprise actually landed. I’m not usually great at surprising people.

Sometime later in the set, just as I was busy taking one or two National Geographic‑level snaps of Jamie Burney (fiddle and backing vocals) on my phone, he clearly clocked us. Maybe he recognised us from previous FD gigs… maybe even from the night before… or maybe we just have very memorable faces. Either way, he suddenly fired a heartfelt, mid‑performance fist‑bump in my direction, well, as close to a fist‑bump as you can manage while sawing away at a fiddle like your life depends on it.

Later on, while he was handing out copies of the set list to a few lucky fans, he made a beeline straight for me, grabbed my hand, and shouted something directly into my ear. Unfortunately, the rest of the band were still in full, glorious, ear‑melting swing, so I didn’t catch a single syllable. For all I know he could’ve been saying “Thanks for coming!” or “Your shoelace is undone!” or “Mate, you’ve got something on your face!”… Who knows?… I’m just hoping it wasn’t anything too bad.

Before we knew it, Ferocious Dog were already part‑way through their final track of the entire Spring tour. One of my all‑time favourites, Slow Motion Suicide, leaving only Ken’s legendary solo performance of Nelly the Elephant to come. And suddenly I’m thinking… where on earth had the night gone? It felt like someone had pressed fast‑forward on the whole gig. One minute we were bouncing around like caffeinated kangaroos, and the next it was all over far too quickly.

As Ken left the stage and the lights came up, reality returned… and so did my new BFF, who this time decided to formally introduce himself as “Neil”… immediately followed by “Neil, Neil, Orange Peel,” as if he’d been waiting the entire night to unleash his little ‘Young Ones’ inspired rhyme in my direction. That was my cue. It was definitely time to say goodnight and walk away, swiftly and politely, but with the kind of speed usually reserved for fire drills.

Upon leaving the venue, Sonia and I made the joint executive decision to pop back into Flan O’Briens, purely in the name of public interest of course, just to confirm that the Guinness really was £7.10 a pint… It was… They were… all four of them were. And once we’d scientifically verified that important piece of economic data, the shots suddenly decided to join the party… completely uninvited, but very well received, and before long, a sneaky little JD and Coke had also suddenly appeared in my hand.

This was our cue to wisely order an Uber back to the hotel before things started getting too messy. We were both absolutely knackered, running on fumes, and in desperate need of sleep. Plus, we had a full day of touristy adventures planned for the following day, a day I had boldly, confidently, and heroically declared to myself, would be an alcohol‑free day… I wonder how that went.