THE UNDERTONES
From our man in Havana , Paul Sutton ;

At a time when all around in sound and vision were into SAHB, Thin Lizzy, Slade, Hells Angel chicks and disco (as in diss goes 'ere, diss goes der) and the power of denim & leather, Party Sevens, and Norton Commando's, someone (a mate, a girlfriend, John Peel?) played me a 7" single with some whiny Irish git whining about his cousin named Kevin who always beat him at Subbuteo 'cause he flicked to kick and the Bogsider didn't know. Well, fuck him, thought I, anyone could beat that fucker. After eyeballing the singer in a silly jumper on the telly I knew I could. Alex Harvey would have stomped his arse back to Belfast and saved the bits for Delilah. Aye, the boys were back in town. What town? Deffo wasn't the town of Whine. I heard The Buzzcocks and thought - Ayup, same shite, different town, same sheep. Then, said pal got me drunk on Snakebites (Guinness & Woodpecker cider mixed up in a bucket) and as I lay dying played me Complete Control by the Clash. I fell asleep laughing, and when I awoke to sign on - it was a Thursday, I remember it well - I hummed White Riot, puked, laughed again, donned my double-soled blue suede Hush Puppy boots like what Alex wore - and hit the road that ended in Dole.

What the fuck was going on, thought I, as another bus driver attempted to drown me, my Daily Mirror, and a sausage-roll & HP Sauce with the over-spray from another abyss in the road. It took a while, but finally, as by time I'd signed my name on the dotted line and admitted no income, it dawned on me that these fuckers were singing about me.


Thank fuck.