Tick, tock the hour is near. It’s the 9th December
1982 and there’s a gig ticket on top of The Jam’spile of vinyl that lays
neatly piled on the Dansette. Not just any old gig ticket, but one so I can say
a fond farewell at the Brighton Centre to
the band that had defined the last six years of my life.
Tick, tock, tick just two days to go. It’s 3pm and I’m in
bed. I’m covered head-to-toe in a red rash.I feel s**t, but I’m gonna beat
this. In forty-eight hours I will be seeing The Jam live for the twenty-seventh
and last time.
Tock, tick rewind. It’s a another wet and windy Spring evening in 1977 and a barely known group of Woking Herberts are in town to try to win over the twenty or so punters who lurk menacingly in the corners of the Embassy Cinema, in Western Road, Brighton.
If we were expecting chit-chat and niceties then The Jam were not ticking any of the light entertainment boxes. TBC Here
Tock, tick rewind. It’s a another wet and windy Spring evening in 1977 and a barely known group of Woking Herberts are in town to try to win over the twenty or so punters who lurk menacingly in the corners of the Embassy Cinema, in Western Road, Brighton.
If we were expecting chit-chat and niceties then The Jam were not ticking any of the light entertainment boxes. TBC Here
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