It was the early days of Punk Rock, March 1977. The group I played in as a drummer were told by two people called our "Managers" that an agency had booked us some gigs in Ireland - Cork, Dublin, then Belfast and Portrush. This news was not met with great enthusiasm and eager excitement - Belfast represented trouble. The blokes in the group were young, none of us had much of an education and we knew nothing about what was going on in towns like Belfast, which appeared on television in an atmosphere of grimness - fear was the feeling. At that time we knew of no other group going to play there - ‘Why us?' I remember thinking, but, unwittingly naive in nearly all matters, we got in the clapped out van and headed west across the water.

Cork and Dublin went by, though not great - we started the ‘tour’ with just enough money for one night’s accommodation. Our wealth hadn’t really grown, but that didn’t matter, our main concern was playing in Belfast.

It was mid-afternoon, we followed the signs off the motorway to Belfast. The roads turned into cramped Victorian housing. Drizzle in an ever-darkening afternoon light only added to a forbidding feel that was threatening in this overcast city. All of us came from the suburbs of London, the symbols reflected from these claustrophobic streets had an intensity and seemed to emanate a strong message, which said, this is a very different place from what you know. The signs were on concrete, brick and the faces of the people I watched through the window of our van as we struggled to find street names which would lead us to our hotel. The red, white and blue kerbstones, daubed messages and words "H-Block" and "Stop Internment" - words I wasn’t sure if I had heard before and certainly didn’t know what they meant. The murals of garish colour reminded me of something I had seen on TV, maybe somewhere in a South American republic. Strange ominous silhouette figures holding guns, having masked faces with slogans I didn’t understand. The van grew quiet, very quiet. This was a foreign land indeed and the feeling was heavy with a menacing intent - a feeling which did not conjure up an image to my mind of relaxed simple laughter, an image of a newly arrived family pet, with the cheery family laughter together at the new arrival’s clumsy antics. No, the word ‘serious’ came to mind.

The security at the hotel wasn’t something we were used to. Because of what the media had promoted I didn’t venture down to the shops or go for a quick beer. That evening we set off to find a place that was ‘the gig’. It was by Queen Elizabeth Bridge in a place called the ‘Pound’. People at the gig were pleased to see us - maybe over friendly. They told us that no-one came over and that they felt left out, they made this point very clear. An alley ran from the club to a street outside. I was talking with a bunch of blokes in the street. One of the lads kicked a can and as this happened they all turned and ran back up the alley. I stood there looking around. A landrover type of car braked sharply to a halt and out jumped these police types with guns. I hadn’t been abroad and wasn’t used to seeing guns in the street, but this was a distant land on the TV wasn’t it? Some held their guns to the rooftops. One pointed his at me. "What is it?" he barked harshly. I didn’t have a clue what he was on about, but a fear froze my insides. He nodded towards the discarded can in the road. "What is it?" he rasped again. "A can - a beer can", I smiled nervously. "Pick it up", his voice uttered with disinterest. I picked up the can. I started to feel a bit queasy. The copper asked me where I was from and I told him, thinking he would be okay or maybe even apologise, but nothing. He nodded towards the gutter. I placed the can by the side of the road and they got in their vehicle and left. I returned to the club. The promoter and a few of the lads I was in the street with were watching what had happened out in the street on a security TV. "Blimey" I said, "that was weird". "Christ", one of the lads said, "I thought he was gonna shoot ya". I looked at him. "That’s what they do here ya know", he said. But the gig went very well. A reception from people starved with a feeling of being left out.

The night after there was a bomb scare in our hotel; we had to evacuate our rooms. A voice told us to over and over, whilst a shrill alarm sounded. I told Nigel the bass player who I shared the room with to move, but he refused. "If it’s gonna happen..." he said and then went on about the London blitz. I got out quickly, and stood in the car park with others. Most had blankets over their heads as the rain beat down a steady unending rhythm. There was no bomb. We returned indoors and me to my room where I was met with the comment, "I told you so".