Between 1973 and 1975 David Essex dominated the UK singles charts. He was our David Cassidy. Or Donny Osmond. You couldn't turn your telly on or open a magazine and not find his Colgate ring of confidence staring back at you. Like dog sh*t n the park - he was everywhere.
Around this time Danny Baker, famously, was passing himself off as Essex's brother. Wearing the same white suit as Essex and tossing his mane รก la Essex, he was getting as many babes as his 'brother', if not more.
Anyway, anyone who read Stud, and is still wondering who the hell I'm going as to this fancy dress shindig, I will put you out of your misery.
On Saturday night, Matthew, I'm going to be David Essex. Jump up and down in yer blue suede shoes.
Though something tells me there's probably more mileage in touting myself as Danny Baker's brother.
My fellow diner and I spotted the band slipping out of the club's stage door on the other side of the street from our table in the window. They'd just finished their soundcheck and were all having a good gleg at the poster outside advertising the gig: Dodgy - Warehouse 23, Wakefield - Friday 16 September - Doors 7.30 pm.
I've lost count how many times I've seen them live. The first time was way back in 1996. They'd just had their Barnets shorn and dyed blonde - a couple of weeks before they released their third album Free Peace Sweet. I remember another blondie introducing them that night - Jo Wiley broadcast the whole gig live that night on her Radio 1 show.
But within a year the band had folded. Nigel Clark's decision to call time stunned everyone. The other two probably still haven't forgiven him.
Since getting back together in 2007, Warehouse 23 is typical of the kind of venue the band play these days; but nearly twenty years ago, just prior to Clark pulling the plug in 1997, Dodgy were on the verge of great things. Their records were selling by the shed load, their guitarist was walking out with Denise van Outen. Life was sweet.
However, things are on the up again: these days they're probably writing the best songs of their career. They've got that knack of releasing material you swear you already know. Take this one for example, California Gold. They played it on Friday as part of a blistering set - it's taken from their new album What Are We Fighting For.
What I know about drumming and tuppence probably wouldn't get your hair cut. But I'd like to think I know the difference between a good drummer and, shall we say, a not so good drummer. And, as a breed, they probably have the same set of chromosomes as goalkeepers: slightly unhinged but someone at the back you can depend on.
The Sweet could never have plied their trade in Glam's top flight if Mick Tucker (the man at the back) hadn't made the drum stool his own. Tight as a duck's bottom and never frightened to set-up the entire contents of the nearest percussion factory on stage and take up residence.
Added to which, Tucker was so good at the windmill trick with his sticks, you'd swear there was a motor hidden between his middle and forefinger.
Here's a bit of archive footage I found for the first time the other day on Youtube from a German TV show in late 1974. Brian Connolly has obviously gone to the bar, leaving our aforementioned drummer about to take to the stage with guitarist Andy Scott and bass player Steve Priest - both looking considerably more svelte than they do today.
Even if you don't fancy watching the whole thing (spoiler alert - contains drum solo), please just watch the opening frames while Tucker performs his windmill straight to camera before throwing his sticks in to the crowd. As a period piece this really is vintage Glam. And they're playing totally live.
So, sit back and enjoy the three-piece Sweet as they chuck the kitchen sink at Elmer Bernstein's 'The Man With the Golden Arm' - taken from their long player Desolation Boulevard released earlier that year.
Postscript - it transpires that women can even take their clothes off to this piece of music. Who knew?
Just back from a few days in Suffolk. They do things differently there. Driving through bandit country - between Saxmundham and Southwold - and I spotted him. On the corner: a lone gunman aiming straight for me. I slammed the anchors on and, with the engine still running, threw myself out of the car, reached for my Canon* and shot him. Twice. What was I supposed to do? It was only then that I spotted the badge.
Too late. But I did not shoot the deputy. I swear.
This is me and Emma. I let Emma do something to me yesterday that no other woman has ever done to me before; or will ever do again. She did it to me in Lincoln, but I know this sort of thing happens all over the place. It probably even happens where you live. If you look carefully at the above photograph you will see what she did. Can you spot it? Maybe a squint at the photo below will help. And if you were to ask me why I let her do it, I can give you two answers: one, 'I'm going to a fancy dress party in a couple of weeks.' Which is actually true, and is really how it all started. And, two, 'It's a long story.' Shorthand for 'I don't really want to talk about it right now.' Also true. But it's shiny. And I like it.
Between 1973 and 1975 David Essex dominated the UK singles charts. He was our David Cassidy. Or Donny Osmond. You couldn't turn your telly on or open a magazine and not find his Colgate ring of confidence staring back at you. Like dog sh*t n the park - he was everywhere.
