It had been planned for months, ever since the gig was announced in fact, a beautifully simple plan that only a fool would think could go wrong. Roll into the pub for around 6pm, sink a couple of ice cold beers, grab a taxi to KK’s, enjoy the show, then hop over to the Giff to finish off the night, before returning home at a vaguely respectable hour. Easy. Civilised. Practically fool proof. But as with most great plans, reality took one look, laughed, and started rearranging things like a toddler with a box of Lego, and before we knew it, amendments were being made.

First off, Sonia had to drive the next day, which meant she wasn’t drinking, a tragedy in itself, so she nobly declared she’d save us the taxi fares and drive to the gig instead. An heroic gesture, though it did mean I’d obviously have to drink for the two of us now… It was gonna be hard on me… but I was just gonna have to pull my big boy pants up and deal with it.

Then Steve messaged to say he was also going to the gig, so we arranged to meet in the pub as originally planned… except by now, 6pm had mysteriously shape-shifted into 5pm. And just when I thought the guest list was complete, I found out my good mate Noggin, who I barely see these days was also going. Next thing you know, the sun was shining, the weather was glorious, I’d messaged Noggin to meet us in the pub, and as 4pm struck… obviously the new 5pm as far as we’re concerned, Sonia and I were out the door, in the car, and on our way into Wolverhampton, stopping only at the cash point to collect beer tokens and debating the best place to park as we did.

My mobility isn’t great these days, so the nearer to the pub the better. I suggested the long‑stay car park: a gentle 10-minute stroll for me… or 2-minutes for anyone whose legs still work properly. But Sonia had already made her decision. We were parking right outside the pub in the disabled bay and using my blue badge. “That’s what it’s for,” she said, with the confidence of a woman who fears no traffic warden, or whatever it is they’re called these days.

Meanwhile, my anxiety levels were raging, and the pessimist in me was having a full‑blown meltdown. What if all the disabled spaces were taken? What if it was a one‑hour maximum stay limit? What if we got a ticket and had to sell one of the kids? But as we turned the corner, there it was. A glorious, wide‑open parking space, practically glowing like the gates of heaven. The perfect spot for the Range Rover.

Sonia didn’t hesitate, and didn’t bat an eye-lid. She reverse‑parked into that space like a woman possessed who was auditioning for the lead role in Fast & Furious: Wolverhampton Drift, and before I’d even finished panicking, we were out of the car and heading into The Wheatsheaf, the sign in the next bay clearly displaying the disabled parking symbol in all it’s glory, and beneath it, those mortal words… 3 hours maximum stay. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

As a Walsall supporter, I really shouldn’t like The Wheatsheaf. In fact, I should detest it on a spiritual level. The very idea of stepping foot inside the place should make my blood boil. Why?… Because it’s a Wolves pub through and through, that’s why. Wall‑to‑wall (and even the ceiling) blanketed in old gold and black flags, scarves, and other memorabilia from ancient times… or, as I prefer to call it, dirty cream and charcoal tat.

But here’s the problem you see: The Wheatsheaf is an absolutely cracking pub. A proper old‑school back‑street boozer where everyone’s made to feel welcome, even me, and they all know exactly who I support. Trust me, I remind them often enough. Yet somehow, instead of trying to tear me a new back passage just for having the audacity to even step foot inside one of their boozers, they just shake my hand, pass me a pint, and carry on like I’m part of the fixtures and fittings. I absolutely love the place.

Once we’d exchanged pleasantries with the regulars, many of whom we now happily call friends, we bought our first drinks and made our usual charitable contribution to the fruit machine. £35 this time. Thirty‑five. And once again, the machine gave us absolutely nothing in return. We then took our seats in order to await the arrivals of Steve and Noggin, though I already had my suspicions that Noggin wouldn’t materialise until KK’s later that night. As much as I love the guy, he’s pretty much like one of those rare Pokémon who only appear in specific locations on certain days, on or just after 8pm.

Steve rocked up at around 5:20pm, full of his usual pre-gig enthusiasm, whilst I eagerly awaited Noggin’s inevitable “not gonna make the pub, see you at the venue” message… It really was only a matter of time.

Now I don’t know whether it’s a superpower I have, or just a lifelong curse, but every time I go to the toilet when we’re out, something always happens. And I mean always. Something unexpected. Something dramatic. Something that absolutely refuses to wait the 90 seconds it takes me to pop out the back and water the ceramic.

If I’m at the football and nip to the loo, I’ll miss the only goal of the match, and it’s usually a screamer. If I’m at the cinema, I’ll miss the one scene that explains the entire plot of the movie. If I’m at a gig, I’ll miss the one song I’ve been waiting all night to hear, the one I’ve been boring everyone about since the day it was released. And if I’m in the pub? Oh, that’s when the magic really happens. I go to the loo, and I’ll miss the only fight of the night. Every single time. It’s like the universe waits for me to take that much needed leak before unleashing chaos on the world. And Saturday was no different. I’m sat in the pub, I go to the loo, and while I’m in there, all Hell breaks loose… thankfully not in the pub this time though, but out in the street.

I walk back into the bar and the pub’s practically emptied itself onto the street. There’s kids running everywhere, blue lights flashing as far as I can squint, police legging it after groups of feral, masked‑up chavs all dressed head-to-toe in black, some armed with zombie knives, machetes, and for some strange reason toy plastic water pistols, like they’re some sort of ‘Bad Boy Merica’. Innocent shoppers are diving for cover, the little bastards sprinting off in all directions with the police right behind them, and there’s me, just stood there thinking, “I only went for a wee”.

Honestly, jokes aside, something needs doing about this knife‑wielding scum. It’s getting ridiculous now. Bring back borstal and National Service, that’ll sort the little shits out quicker than any naughty step or TikTok ban ever will. It’s really not safe to walk the streets of the UK any more.

And that’s when Sonia and Steve saw it… just sitting there behind the windscreen wiper, minding its own business… that neatly folded piece of paper in its own little yellow plastic sleeping bag. A dreaded parking ticket. The automotive equivalent of being slapped across the face with a wet fish, glowing like radioactive custard, announcing to the world that despite Sonia’s Olympic‑level reverse‑parking and my disability badge proudly displayed like some sort of royal endorsed get out of jail free card, some clipboard‑wielding jobsworth had decided we were most probably criminals of the highest order and should therefore be punished accordingly.

Yes, there was a sign in the next bay with the disabled symbol and that nice clear 3‑hour stay notice… but that’s just it, that was the next bay. The bay we were in, however, had a tiny little ‘Loading Only’ sign, half‑hidden behind a bunch of leaves and quite possibly wearing full camouflage gear.

So much for saving money on taxi fares eh. Although to be fair, if we pay it early enough it won’t actually cost us much more, so technically we’ve still won… pretty much in the same way that Walsall “win” when we only lose 1–0. And obviously, I didn’t want to say “told you so” to Sonia… but let’s be honest, I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t. I had to brave it. It’s practically a law where we come from.

When we arrived at the venue, I can’t say I was shocked to discover the gig was only in the small bar rather than the main room itself. The photos from the previous night had already hinted that ticket sales weren’t exactly flying out like hot cakes. Still, if Chez Kane’s performance supporting Lita Ford and Vixen back in July 2025 was anything to go by, that time she was on the main stage at KK’s, absolutely belting it out like she owned the place, plus the fact her latest album Reckless is an absolute banger, then surely we were in for a great night… or at least I hoped we were.

I usually don’t mind a gig in the bar if I’m honest. It’s cosy, it’s loud, and you can reach the bar easily from anywhere in the room, all the essentials really. But there was one major bugbear tonight. The disabled seating we’d originally reserved was firmly bolted to the floor in the other room… the one plunged into complete darkness. Meanwhile, every available unreserved seat in the bar had already been taken hostage by people who’d clearly arrived at lunchtime and weren’t planning on giving them up without the intervention of a full-blown hostage negotiation team. Fair enough, it’s only to be expected. You snooze, you lose.

So it was starting to look like an evening of back‑breaking agony for me again, the kind where you stand there pretending you’re fine, whilst in reality, your spine is quietly reminding you otherwise. Still, I’d already planned my strategy: the moment the support band hit the stage, I was making a beeline for the first seat that became available. No hesitation. No mercy. A mobility‑impaired ninja with just one mission.

We didn’t have to wait for long. No sooner the first strum of a guitar was announced to the room, everyone made for the front of the stage. We on the other hand, we just made for their seats. Job done.

By this point of course, Noggin had made his first appearance of the night, proceeded no more than 10-minutes earlier by that afore mentioned “not gonna make the pub, see you at the venue” message I’d so eagerly anticipated… But in all fairness to the guy, he’d been partying with Wolfsbane in Milton Keynes the night before, his 75^th Wolfsbane gig in all, so I guess I’ve gotta give him some leeway.

I introduced Noggin to Steve, then Steve to Noggin. Then Noggin introduced us to some friends of his, and we introduced ourselves to them, and so on, and so on… You get the picture. And before we knew it, we were back at the bar getting the beers in, whilst Noggin went and checked out the support band.

I’d never seen The Soul Revival perform live before, and honestly, with a name like that, I half‑expected a gospel choir, not a rock band with an identity crisis. I’d only ever heard the odd snippet of them on YouTube, and they’d always sounded… OK. Not terrible, not brilliant, just OK. So my expectations were already pretty low.

Noggin’s face as he trudged back to the table didn’t help either. He looked like a man who’d just witnessed a musical beige carpet being rolled out in front of him. His verdict? Pretty much mediocre, nothing new, nothing exciting, the musical equivalent of a lukewarm cuppa. And judging by the number of people around us who’d also given up and started chatting amongst themselves, we weren’t the only ones. Still, at least we still had Chez to look forward to, though hope can be a powerful thing sometimes.

During TSR’s set, which, let’s be honest, wasn’t exactly demanding our full attention, Anne from the booking desk came ambling into the bar like a woman on a mission, carrying a stool she’d liberated from the main room. She headed straight for me, plonked it down, and said she’d put it at the back with my name on it so I wouldn’t have to stand. I swear, in that moment, she wasn’t just Anne… she was Super Anne, Saint Anne of KK’s, the Patron Saint of Knackered Gig‑Goers and Dodgy Knees.

What an absolute diamond. My own little throne, right at the back, with a perfect view of the stage, no craning my neck, no shuffling about, no pretending my knees weren’t plotting a mutiny. For a glorious five minutes, I genuinely felt like a rock star myself.

Finally, and I mean finally, it was time for Chez Kane to hit the stage. This was the moment I’d been waiting for, clinging to like a life raft, based entirely on that cracking gig back in 2025 and her absolute belter of an album Reckless. As she burst onto the stage with her opening track, it genuinely felt like the wait was going to be worth it. The energy was there, the lights were there, the hair was doing all the right things… but…

By the end of the third track, I found myself wondering whether The Soul Revival had snuck back on for a cheeky second set. Something just wasn’t landing. Her performance was, and I say this with much love and respect, pretty sub‑standard. Not “oh dear, she’s having an off night” but sub‑standard.

By track five, people were quietly slipping out like they’d just remembered they’d left the oven on. By track six, Noggin was actively pointing out the growing empty space like a tour guide: “And on your left, ladies and gentlemen, the area formerly known as the audience.” The room was split right down the middle, some people were absolutely loving it, bless ’em… and others very much weren’t. We were firmly in the latter camp.

Halfway through the set, we exchanged that look, the universal signal for “shall we?”, and that was that. Time to leave. Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is walk away… and this time, preferably before track seven. Though Noggin decided he was going to stay a little longer and try and get his monies worth.

Sorry Chez… I don’t know what went wrong. Maybe it was the room. Maybe it was the sound. Maybe it was the performance, or maybe it was just us?… I really don’t know what the answer is. It’s a shame, but we really didn’t enjoy the gig.

At this point, I should be writing about how brilliant the gig had been, how we were now sprawled out in The Giff, chilling, celebrating, and getting absolutely obliterated on whatever unholy shots the bar staff could conjure up. That’s the version of events the universe should have given us. But no. Reality had other plans for us.

It was only 10pm, practically still the afternoon, and The Wheatsheaf didn’t close until 11. So instead of sticking to floor at The Giff like the uncivilised degenerates we are, it was back into the Range Rover and straight back to where the day’s festivities had begun just five and a half hours earlier for a couple of JD and Cokes… and maybe the odd Jägerbomb just for good measures.

We did eventually make our way to the Giff before heading home, where we once again bumped into Noggin, though this time he’d upgraded to ‘accompanied by a lady friend’, namely Elyse, who Sonia and I already knew from the last time we saw Noggin. They were sat in the bay window, deep in conversation, looking for all the world like two people who absolutely did not want to be interrupted. Naturally, us being us, we crashed straight into their peaceful little bubble like a bunch of human seagulls who’d just spotted chips.

And that’s roughly where the evening starts to go a bit foggy for me. Not in a ‘face‑down in a hedge’ sort of way, more of a gentle, cosy beer‑buzz, like someone had turned my brain’s sharpness setting down to ‘soft focus’. A couple more JD’s, a few more Jägerbombs, and suddenly my entire body announced, without negotiation, that it was time to go home and hit the sack.

It’s true what they say I guess when they say that God works in mysterious ways. After all, we started the evening off £35 down thanks to our contribution to the fruit machine, we ended up with a parking ticket thanks to [this section has been redacted in order to preserve my own safety and wellbeing], and the gig had been a major let-down pretty much from start to finish, yet we still managed to have an absolutely brilliant night out with good people. Proof I guess that its quite often the people your with that makes the party, and not the party itself.