As threatened in a previous entry: The events of Thursday 12th November, 1992.

We come towards the end of a song. I've given up. Mo is being a shark. Kev's mum's jumper is already getting battered. Steve's in shorts and brown, patterned socks.

We attempt to end another song. Steve misses the cue. Drummer, Stephen, looks on in amusement. I am pissing myself.

Mo receives physical punishment from Steve and Kevin for being a disappointing performance artist. As someone who abhors violence, I grimace.

Rhodri and Kevin in full effect. My hair is tied up in bunches, and I'm wearing a shirt whose collar size is way too small for my fat neck.

Mo does his impersonation of an aging German prostitute, his face inexplicably flecked with instant mashed potato.

Steve and I applaud our own efforts, in an attempt to encourage the crowd to do the same.

Mo poses a pertinent question to the Schaffhausen teens.

Compare and contrast Mo's lithe suppleness, and Steve paunch with a target sprayed on it in black paint.

Mo, post gig. A delicious combination of chaos and pain. He once did half a Czech tour with a broken rib, bloody idiot.

Steve begins to appreciate the humour of the situation.

Kev begins to appreciate the humour of the fact that Mo has found an enormous tube backstage and is playing it like an Alpine horn.

Encore!