It was never going to work out like that was it? Us? Going straight to the gig, watching the bands, then toddling off home like responsible adults, climbing into bed at a sensible hour because we had to be up early the next morning. Honestly. Who were we trying to kid? Even I didn’t believe it, and I was the one telling the story.

Nope. Even though it was only a Thursday evening, a school night, a sensible‑people‑stay‑at-home night, we still had to rock up at the Giff an hour before The Dark Room even opened, so that I could relax, sink a nice cold Guinness or three, and indulge in one of our finest pre‑gig traditions: a spot of Olympic-level people watching.

It’s not very often we get to see the Giff in the daylight. That pleasures usually reserved for the very early hours of a Saturday or Sunday morning whilst in a state of advanced alcoholic refreshment and trying to remember where we left our dignity. So actually seeing it while the sun was still up felt almost exotic. And yet, even in broad daylight, the place still clings to its much loved rock and heavy metal vibes and refuses to sober up no matter what time of day it is.

Normally, by this point, I’m giving you the full saga of how disastrous the trip to the venue was. How many boy racers and rogue OAPs had attempted to send us into the afterlife. How many times the sat‑nav had tried to lure us into a dark alleyway that most definitely isn’t marked on any map as an official road. And how difficult it was to find a parking space that didn’t come with a guaranteed parking ticket. But not this time.

This time, the short 15 minute trip into Wolverhampton was completely uneventful. Monotonous even. There were no kamikaze pensioners. No 18‑year‑old wannabe Michael Schumacher’s. No parking dramas. Nothing. Just a simple point‑A‑to‑point‑B, hassle‑free journey. Nothing short of glorious in fact.

There’s also no story to tell of pre‑gig pub meet‑ups either this time around, as apparently some people, when they’ve got work the next day, they actually put their responsible‑adult heads on and do sensible things like stay in. Imagine that.

We were, however, going to see our good friend Noggin for the second time in two weeks, which is practically a miracle in itself, considering we normally don’t bump into each other for months on end. But there was a very good reason for this rare cosmic alignment, and that’s because he’s actually very good friends with Hearts and Hand Grenades, and has been loving every minute of working with them throughout the whole of their UK tour.

I was barely a third of the way down my second pint when he came darting into the bar like Sonic the Hedgehog on acid, bouncing round the room like a man on a mission with far too much to do to stop and chat. We made our typical greetings, he quickly introduced me to Steph (vocals and bass) and Mike (guitar) from HAHG, then shot off again like a possessed roadie who’d just remembered he’d forgotten to plug something in.

I swear, if speed roadieing (if that’s even a word) was an Olympic sport, Noggin would win gold every time. Probably whilst rewiring the amps mid‑sprint.

There were actually three bands playing on the night. Paradise Sins, who I’m sorry to say I hadn’t heard of until this gig was announced, which to be fair, is hardly their fault; my musical discovery process often consists of a game of YouTube roulette, accidental discovery, or pure word of mouth.

Then there was Molly Karloff, who I’d heard the odd snippet of before but had never seen live. And of course, Hearts & Hand Grenades themselves. The band Noggin keeps telling absolutely everyone to go and see. The band he travels to Buffalo, New York to go and see, and the band who, after checking them out on online several times, I also wanted to go and see. So when they announced they were playing at one of our regular haunts just 15 minutes up the road, it wasn’t even a decision. It was a reflex. A pure, instinctive, no‑brainer, ticket-purchasing moment.

Now if I’m honest, it’s rare we actually get to see much of the first band on stage. Usually there’s just one more pint to be had in quieter surroundings and a natter with whoever we happen to bump into, and before we know it, act 1 are already saying their good‑nights just as we stroll in.

However, knowing just how limited the seating is in The Dark Room, and knowing that Hearts & Hand Grenades were running their find‑our‑Polaroid‑photo‑and‑win‑free‑swag competition, we actually made our way upstairs early doors, grabbed a seat, and waited for the show to begin, our eyes scanning the room for the aforementioned Polaroid, like two hardened bargain‑hunters on Black Friday. And am I glad we did?

From the get-go, Paradise Sins literally blew me away. They were tight. They were full of energy. They were electric. They were just pure brilliance. They even had me standing up on more than one occasion, pain or no pain. A rarity in itself.

You could tell instantly that the band have great chemistry together, a stronger than strong stage presence, and the ability to engage and interact with their audience at the drop of a hat, as and when they please, which you don’t really see all that often at gigs.

The bands overall sound was immense. Like a brand new version of a classic band. Playing their own infectious, hard-hitting songs, but in a classic ass-kicking, true British hard-rock style. They certainly gained a few new fans on the night, and I’m happy to say I’m one of them.

Mark my words. If Paradise Sins continue along the same path as they’re on at the moment, they’re going to go onto much bigger and better things. I guarantee it. So do yourselves a favour. If you haven’t seen these guys play live yet, do it. Before the larger venue’s start charging you ridiculous prices for the privilege.

Next up were modern hard-rock, high-energy, riff-driven trio, Molly Karloff who’s music and style reminds me a lot of the likes of Revival Black and Gin Annie, with their similar melodic hard-rock, big riffs, and hard hitting, upbeat sound. Dare I say it? There may even be a touch of The Foo Fighters about them.

Although this isn’t typically a style of music I go for, I did catch their entire set. Despite others choosing to retreat to the downstairs bar instead, which unfortunately left the room feeling a little flat.

All-in-all, Molly Karloff are a pretty cool band who have a great on-stage presence, and a great following. I’d definitely watch them again if they were on the bill of an up and coming show I was already going to, but would I personally pay to go and see them headline?… I think the jury’s still out on that one… As I say, Great band. Great set. Great performance. It’s just their style of music isn’t for me.

I did still purchase both their vinyls from their merch stall to add to my collection though, so who knows?… maybe they’ll grow on me.

It was soon time for Hearts and Hand Grenades to hit the stage, and by now all the people who’d retreated to the bar some 45 minutes earlier had started to drift back in, much to my disappointment and general annoyance. Why? I hear you ask. Well, the story goes a little like this.

Up until that moment, we’d been living the dream: comfy seats, easy access to the bar, and just about enough personal space to enable us to adjust our positions if needed without elbowing some stranger in the face. But as the time ticked on, back they came.

Unfortunately, during the break, although our journey into Wolverhampton had been somewhat issue‑free, and although we’d managed to park nearby without incident, there was still one tiny problem lurking in the background. We were parked in a three‑hour maximum‑stay disabled bay. And after our little parking‑ticket fiasco two weeks earlier, Sonia wasn’t about to risk a sequel, even though the traffic Gestapo had almost certainly clocked off duty by now.

Non-the-less, off she went to move the car. Determined not to donate another single penny towards Wolverhampton Council’s 2026 Christmas party fund. But due to the crappy one‑way system, what should have been a quick nip‑round‑the-block turned into a full‑blown sightseeing tour of Wolverhampton’s least scenic back streets.

Obviously, during this time, old weak-bladder Anslow here needed to use the loo, which meant going downstairs and leaving our seats unoccupied. Alone. Undefended. Empty. Like two sitting ducks. And of course, by the time my poor excuse for legs had managed to drag the rest of my ram-shackled carcass back upstairs, new tenants had moved in and were already halfway through redecorating the third bedroom.

What could I do? I couldn’t just turf people out of unattended and unreserved seats just because we’d been sat there earlier. So I did what any man in my position would do. I just leant against the back wall and waited for Sonia’s stare of death as the re-entered to room and discovered my inability to carry out that one simple task whilst she was out doing the important stuff.

In all fairness though, it wasn’t long before someone noticed I was struggling to stand and took pity on me, making room for us to sit back down. Our comfy seats. The ones with easy access to the bar. Now offered very little space to manoeuvrer, and zero chance of seeing any on-stage action. But I guess you can’t have it both ways can you?

Last but by no means least. The band we’d all gone to see. Hearts and Hand Grenades hit the stage. They hit the stage hard, and they hit the stage LOUD.

Steph’s addictive and entrancing, Lzzy Hale’esque voice as she blasted through their two opening tracks, My Sickness and For the Weakened, was out of this world, and in my opinion would give the aforementioned Halestorm frontwoman a run for her money any day of the week.

The twin guitars of Mike and Jeremy roared and echoed around the room like a runaway, suped-up steam train with break failure… almost catching up with Noggin at one point, who by now was in at least three different places at the same time taking photographs… Honestly, the man never stops moving. He makes me feel knackered just watching him.

The tracks Blame it on the Rain, Nothing Left, and Boom followed, blending seamlessly into a quality metal-cover of Rag N’Bone Man’s Human, Way Down Low, and I Just Want My Rock as if it had been planned that way all along. And before we knew it. Each and everyone of us were joining in with Steph in an impromptu video, introducing the rest of the world to the C-Bomb in true West Midlands style. Much to the delight of Steph and the rest of the Americunts on stage (her words, not mine).

As the intro to Our Darkest Night kicked in, Cory’s precise performance behind the drums, and Steph’s hard hitting bassline literally had the room shaking, and I mean literally… Sounding absolutely perfect in every way, shape, and form. No one was disappointed. No one was complaining. There was nothing to be disappointed or complain about. This was nothing short of a grade-A lesson in exactly how a hard rock band should sound. Loud. Pure. Precise. Perfect.

Obviously by this point, I’d ditched the Guinness in favour of my beloved JD and Coke, possibly in a subconscious attempt to feel a little more American and more at home with the band. And as each sip passed my lips, I couldn’t help but wonder whether or not that Polaroid had been discovered yet.

Surely it had. The Dark Room’s no bigger than our front room when you’re ever so slightly intoxicated. But there’d been no mention of it up to that point. So maybe it was still out there somewhere. Lurking in the shadows. Just waiting to be found. My eyes started scanning the room again. My vision and ability to think outside the box, just that little bit more fuzzy than it had been previously.

In the short time it had taken me to make another trip to the loo, stop off at the bar for a top-up, and have another quick scan of the room for that illusive Polaroid. The song’s Breathe Into Me, Forevermore, and Can’t Take This had somehow managed to pass me by, although I have it on good authority that they were performed. 100%. No doubt about it. It’s just I hadn’t heard them. And before long, Where I Begin and the awesome Turning To Ashes had also been and gone, leaving HAHG with just one more song to go. The equally awesome Burn (By My Fire). What a track to end the night with… Well, when I say end the night, I meant end the gig.

I’d just witnessed one of the best gigs I’ve been to in quite a while, and I wasn’t ready to go home just yet. There was a full-blown rock disco in full swing downstairs with Baby Mike behind the decks. The night was still young. The bar was still open. Hmm! Decisions, decisions.

We were just about to make our way downstairs when we finally spotted it. Just stuck there. Quite high up on the wall, but in plain sight… The illusive HAHG win‑free‑swag Polaroid we’d spent all night looking for. Like a slightly intoxicated, overweight, disabled ninja, I swooped in, claiming it as my own, and collected my welcomed goodies from the merch table… Small victory’s and all that definitely call for small celebrations.

As we wandered into the bar, I was immediately greeted by our good friend and former Giff doorman Sunny, who launched himself at me with the kind of enthusiasm normally reserved for long‑lost relatives or returning war heroes. Sonia, meanwhile, completely missed him and marched straight past to claim our usual seats in the window, whilst Sunny and I exchanged greetings.

It wasn’t long before Sunny plonked himself down with us, and before we knew it we were deep in one of those classic “remember when…?” conversations, about Giff staff who’d sadly vanished into the mists of time, when I happened to mention Blakey, the Giffs former Bar Manager. Part‑time legend. Full‑time descent bloke. And without missing a beat, Sunny just pointed across the room and said, “You mean that Blakey there?”.

Sure enough, there he was, no more than five metres away. Just sat there. Deep in conversation. I looked at Blakey. Blakey looked at us. There was a brief moment of awkward silence, then with his coat in one hand, drink in the other, he ditched his conversation and headed straight for us. Grinning from ear to ear. Arms out-stretched. Definite man-hug in-coming.

It’s at this point, and in true Daz Anslow style, that things started to get a little bit hazy.

I remember a couple more JD and Cokes were involved. An hour or so of chatting complete and utter bollocks with someone who I’d mistaken for someone else. Purchasing a round of 20 Jägerbombs at the bar, four of which I took over to HAHG who were now relaxing in a dark corner of the bar. And the rest were simply devoured by myself, my new found friend, and anyone else who fancied one. I’m kind like that… Or as Sonia calls it… Stupid.

And that’s about it. I don’t recall leaving the Giff, the trip home, or even getting into bed. And no, I didn’t get up early Friday morning as originally planned either… I felt a little tender.

What I did get up to however was the news that Sonia had been online on Friday morning and purchased more surprise gig tickets… Ooo! Was it Iron Maiden at Knebworth?… No, we already have those. Was it Bloodstock Festival weekend tickets?…. No, we already have those too?… Was it Amon Amarth?… No, we still need to get those… No it was none of the above. Turns out we’re going to see 80’s Pop sensations / New Romantics, Duran Duran in Birmingham this coming October.

There was a moment of silence… Quite a long a moment.

Could’ve been worse I guess. It could’ve been the Welsh warbler Tom Jones at Chester Racecourse this August instead… Imagine that… Oh! Hang on a minute…