This is Phil Capper, poet's mate, again. Two gigs stick out in my mind as the worst it can get, which after almost thirty years of gigging really DOES mean bad.

The first one was me and two mates playing at the "final night party" for a room full of police detective sergeants, who were getting royally pissed (drunk, for those of you across the pond) at the end of their inspector's promotion course. Nuff said!

The second was playing in a skiffle band in a posh hotel in Cheshire for the world sales conference for Twyfords, the urinal makers, with an audience made up of Japanese, Indians, Mid-West tub-thunpers, Germans, Africans etc. Try putting together sets that don't offend religious sensibilities for half of that lot, while entertaining the rest who want everything louder and bawdier!

Gigs from hell? Ha!