Not perhaps the worst gig, but possibly the Great Escape...

It's 1990, a Sunday afternoon gig at a bikers' pub in Ashton-under-Lyne. The usual fare here consists of blues bands, but I'm with a band that plays old-time, country, and rockabilly on acoustic instruments, albeit with a small PA system. The crowd - a pretty intimidating bunch with plenty of ale inside them - are looking suspiciously at our banjos, fiddles, and stand-up bass.

We play the first song. Someone shouts out "IT'S NOT FUCKING LOUD ENOUGH!", to noisy expressions of agreement from across the room. We turn up the PA to the edge of feedback, and announce the next number: "We're gonna do a bluegrass song for you now..."

"BLUEGRASS?!!" For a few moments the air around us is bluer than the grass of Kentucky. We could hardly have got a more furious reaction had we announced 'The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy'. This is not what they came to hear.

I'm losing my nerve. I'm a folkie, accustomed to audiences who nod enthusiastically when I tell them that the next song is Child 243, and sit in rapt attention throughout. This lot are a GBH case waiting to happen. Fortunately my bandmates are veterans of many a working-men's club, and remain inexplicably unfazed by the situation: "Don't worry, we'll be fine."

We soldier on. Somehow, the atmosphere of hostility and violence begins to ebb away. Surely they can't be enjoying this? By the end of the set, loud cries of "MORE BLUEGRASS!" go up. We get an encore.

As we're packing away our gear, the punters link arms and shoulders, forming the kind of huddle used by footballers during penalty shoot-outs, and begin their own sing-song. They belt out 'Delilah', apparently unconcerned by the misogynistic violence of the lyric. After that comes the big finish: 'Two Little Boys'. They roar out the first couple of verses, then arrive at verse three, in which Jack breaks ranks to ride back to his comrade Joe, lying mortally wounded on the battle field. Usually at this point Jack utters the heart-warming words, "Do you think I would leave you dying, when there's room on my horse for two?" The bikers, however, bellow:

"Then came a voice he knew...

GET UP, YOU SOFT BASTARD!!"

The publican comes over to pay us our thirty quid. "You've gone down well today, lads: they usually do the sing-song while the band is playing."

Thanks to all who contributed the entertaining tales above.