I think it was called The Stonehouse in Old Market now long demolished that the incident in question happened. It was the early 1980’s and the band were at that time called Beirut. We had pretensions of grandeur in our stage show and our sound man had rigged up flares to rival the flares we were probably still wearing at that time (funny how fashion goes in circles). However these flares contained magnesium powder and could be detonated by wire and battery just as the band slammed into the opening chord of Jailbreak causing two plumes of orange sparks to shoot up from either side of the stage and hit the ceiling.

So far so good. This particular night we were running through our deeply unfashionable programme of heavy rock covers and originals to a handful of clubbers some of who were pretty well gone and were dancing. Well, you can picture it. The girls waving their arms about and striking attitudes in the hippy chick tradition and the blokes sort of bouncing up and down to the beat while still holding their pints with the result that most of the beer ended up on the floor which turned into a skating rink in no time.

Anyway, one chap who was particularly well oiled and or stoned (well it was the stonehouse) was jigging about on the spot vaguely in the vicinity of one of the hippy chicks probably hoping to hook with her up by osmosis or telepathy or something as shy desperate men are known to do towards the end of the evening when they have lost the power to synchronise mind to mouth.

His dance followed the Status Quo tradition now well established of hooking the two thumbs into the waistband of his jeans with his legs apart, sticking his arse out, leaning forward and shaking his head up and down and from side to side like a loon.

The trouble was that this chap stuck his arse out in the wrong place and at the wrong time as he was right next to one of our stage flairs.

I don’t think any of us in the band have seen anyone move as fast as he did before or since as he launched himself towards the toilet and the nearest source of water furiously flapping at his smouldering backside heedless of who was in his way. This truly was a man on a mission.

Needless to say our drummer bumped into him later in the evening and he seemed oblivious. That truly is the sign of a dedicated drinker.