music

Danny Rat and Rock City

Danny and I had a difficult friendship. I’m not sure most of the time we even were friends. We were in the same form and the same sets. We spent a lot of time together. He was one of those kids who was always there, and he probably thought the same about me.

Danny never combed his hair, or it would appear washed it, and his protruding teeth were not always clean. He was gloomy at times. He talked about the end of the world. Oddly, he kept a spider in a matchbox. He was small and scuttled about, his head down. His physiognomy and manner earned him the gangster-style moniker of Danny Rat. Kids can be cruel.

Danny and I had a fight in the changing rooms before PE. It was over something stupid, and we suddenly found ourselves going full Lord of the Flies, punching each other wildly, while the other boys savagely bayed for blood. There was a moment when the human side of my brain said, ‘What are you doing? This isn’t you!’ The ape side cackled  – ‘Make him bleeeeed.’

The mob got their blood. Danny, who did taekwondo, had the perfect guard and, from nowhere, punched me twice in the nose. Like a boxer with high cheekbones, it was my weakness. Not that it was ever that hard to cause my nose to bleed. Blowing it and even sniffing in dry weather has the same effect. The fight was stopped, and I was taken away to be patched up. Danny was deemed the winner. He drew blood. It was not something I ever wanted to do again.

Things changed in the sixth form, and we started getting on better. Danny was taking more care of his personal appearance. He grew his hair and kept it washed. He looked like he was modelling himself on Dave Grohl, who had just released Foo Fighters’ debut album.

Danny did two important things for me, which I’m grateful for. Firstly, he introduced me to alternative music. He lent me a compilation CD that included Radiohead. It was the first time I heard Creep, and like many other teenage boys at the time, I instantly related to it. I imagine Danny felt that way, too.

Secondly, most importantly, he invited me to go to Rock City with him, with a few others. A bidding that changed my life.

Life before Rock City involved going out in Hucknall every Friday night. My whole sixth form did. We were mostly underage, and this wasn’t something the pubs and bars seemed to care about. They were raking it in. Unless the cops felt arsed to do a patrol, the bar staff hardly ever requested to see our NUS ID cards, with, of course, doctored date of birth details.

Hucknall had no nightclubs. What it did have was The Byron. The pub had an upstairs room half the size of a tennis court, where a DJ played the latest Euro cheese dance music and remixed chart hits. For some reason, it was the place everyone wanted to be. You would have to queue for ages to get in, and there was no guarantee you would. The bouncers were strict. You weren’t always told why they weren’t letting you in. If you did, it was deemed an achievement. I remember celebrating at the top of the stairs whenever I did. That was the good bit, being chosen. Getting what you want is another story. Too loud. Too packed. Too many pricks. The lager, expensive and pissy. You couldn’t talk to anyone because you’d just be shouting and spitting in their ear. I spent some of the time in my own head, the words to Creep and How Soon is Now, on repeat, while watching my school friends having a great time, laughing, dancing, flirting, kissing… maybe something else later.

What the hell am I doing here?

I tried nightclubs in Nottingham. The music wasn’t right. I hated the dress code – shirt, trousers, shoes. Anything reminding you of school surely should be avoided. You had to pay for the pleasure back then too. I enjoyed being with friends, getting drunk and farting around, but I spent most of the time hypervigilant. I worried about spilling someone’s pint and getting glassed in return. I witnessed violence inside and out. Bouncers pressing heads against the pavement until the police arrived.

They were often sleazy places. I would watch from the side, or balcony, as men prowled, creeping up to women on the dance floor. Grabbing and then gyrating themselves, uninvited, against an unsuspecting victim. Was this something that was ever encouraged? I’d seen women get off with men just so they left them alone.

I don’t belong here.

‘Come with us to Rock City,’ said Danny.

Mum had warned me about Rock City. It was full of Hell’s Angels, apparently. She made it sound rough and unsafe. I wasn’t sure it was right for me. I imagined long haired oily rockers with big beards who would delight in humiliating me by putting me in a headlock. I don’t know why. I think I’d watched too many old Clint Eastwood films, the ones with the orangutan who liked sticking his middle finger up at people.

‘It’s nothing like that,’ said Danny, laughing. ‘It’s student night.’

‘And, no dress code?’

‘Wear what you want.’

The student night was named Jeudi and was on every week from 8.30pm to 2.30am.

I laid out my jeans, random band t-shirt, and cheesecloth shirt (to be tied around the waist due to inevitable temperature increase as the night wore on). My blue Adidas Gazelles waited by the door.


It’s hard to explain the first time, but you know when it’s significant. You know you’ll remember the moment forever – like your first day at school, or seeing your football team for the first time. At Rock City it was when I walked the stairs from the lobby, and opened the double doors to hear music I loved, sounding better than ever.

There was black everywhere. The walls, the ceiling, the furniture, the bars, the lino, apart from the wooden sticky dance floor. (I made the mistake once of wearing white jeans and I woke up the next day to see them covered in black streaks like a miniature car had driven over them).

A Rock City mural on the back wall of the stage, made with different tones of glow-in-the-dark-paint, had a thousand different names scratched into it.

As innocent as I was, and after what Mum told me about Rock City, I couldn’t help thinking it was all a bit illicit. Something shouldn’t be this much fun. Should I even be here? This was highlighted when someone offered me a sip of their can of Two Dogs. Not an E, or anything illegal like that, but alcoholic lemonade. I hesitated. I thought he’d smuggled It in. Alcoholic pop? Alcopop. Oh, you can buy it here? Wow.


‘You’ll never pull a girl at Rock City,’ Danny told me as we sipped from cans of Red Stripe. We were chatting, enjoying the music, watching people dance, and building up the courage to join them.

Some girls had the Mod look, others modelled themselves on Louise Wener from Sleeper. Some had an androgyny similar to Justine Frischmann, the lead singer of Elastica. They mostly wore tees, jeans and trainers. No-one was bothering them which was great to see. I never saw any trouble. ‘Safe space’ wasn’t a thing in the 1990s, but if it was, Rock City was for us all.

Danny wasn’t being mean. It was just his experience. This wasn’t the main reason for going, and it wasn’t like he or the others had much luck anywhere else. I was, however, desperate to meet girls, like those on the dancefloor – girls who didn’t know me. Who didn’t know my character or the reputation I had. Nice, funny, smart, but just a friend… I could start afresh. It never felt like I could be with any girl in my sixth form. Many of them were already in relationships, but also, why would I? I couldn’t think of anything more awkward. The biggest reason of all, perhaps, was that none of them appeared to be into what I liked, and that mattered.

At Rock City, I felt I could be myself. I felt safe. I felt I was among people who cared about what I loved. Feeling that I wouldn’t be mocked for wanting to dance like a twat to Blur’s Sunday Sunday, or Black Grape’s In the Name of the Father, was liberating.


The knock-on effect of feeling free and having fun, was that it was actually quite attractive. I suddenly found I was getting attention and despite what Danny said, it turned out you could pull a girl at Rock City. In my case, every week (until I got a girlfriend). Maybe they pulled me. This sounds like a massive brag. Hear me out. When you’re in a safe environment, when you love the place, when you feel free to dance, sing and twat about, with a big smile on your face… Well, funnily enough you’re much more fanciable than if you’re standing at the side looking like the world is on your shoulders and wondering why no-one wants to snog you (I refer you to the bit about The Byron).

I recall catching the eye of a pretty redhead, as we sang along to Pulp on the dancefloor. We met at the bar and I bought her a JD and coke. We sat down. We talked. We kissed. She finished her drink, said thanks and walked off. I’d been used, but hey ho. I chuckled to myself.

The Thursday night Rock City routine, along with the gigs I went to, continued until I went to university in summer 1997. I didn’t visit again until the following year, and sadly, it had all changed. I went during Freshers week before I was due to return to my uni. It was all wrong. There was an Ali G impersonator on stage. I was never a big fan of the character, but an impersonator? Nah. The DJ played hits by the boy band Five and Robbie Williams. It was crushing. I left early.

I’m a late GenXer, born in 1978, so perhaps this new crowd were the first Millennials to experience Rock City. A fresh crowd, new tastes, music and fashion. It had changed in a short space of time. I felt sad, but nothing lasts forever. Who’s to say what I experienced in those two years wasn’t to the expectations of others previous to me?

I have plenty of contentment in my middle age, but whenever I go back to Rock City I feel homesick for those times in my teens – a version of myself that’s long gone. Gleeful, carefree and happy.

Thanks for the invite, Danny. Wherever you are.

Punk Nan

I’m Madeline and this story is about my two nans.

Normal Nan is always busy and together we like to bake,

In the afternoons she’ll attack the garden with her metal rake.

Normal Nan likes to share some stories, she has plenty in her locker,

But my other nan is different… She’s a punk rocker!

Punk Nan has a pink mohawk and wears an old leather jacket,

She said it’s pointless buying new clothes, the ones that cost a packet.

Punk Nan love animals and has two cats and a doggy called Iggy, 

They say he’s dangerous, but really, he’s just a greedy little piggy.

Punk Nan likes holding hands with her girlfriend Barbara and people tend to snigger,

‘They can laugh all they like,’ said Punk Nan, ‘because being in love makes me feel bigger!’

They both like punk music and listen to bands like Buzzcocks and The Clash,

And when we all feel like rocking out Barbara lets me give her drums a bash.

Kids at school call Punk Nan names and say she smells of wee,

But she wears fruity perfume and only drinks mint tea.

One day it all got too much and I ran away from school,

I was found by Punk Nan near the town’s swimming pool.

‘Why can’t you be like Normal Nan?’ I told her and began to cry.

She told me not to worry and that one day I’d understand why,

‘It’s ok to be different and be who you want to be.

‘Because being honest and true is what’s key,

‘Punk is about standing up for yourself and sticking it to the man,

‘I’m happy being who I am and I’m proud to be your nan.

‘You know, Normal Nan isn’t as ordinary as you think,’

She said, grinning, while giving me a wink,

‘I know she likes baking cakes and is a fan of Mary Berry,

‘But back in the seventies she had blue hair and a boyfriend named Terry!’

‘It’s true!’ said Normal Nan, grinning from ear to ear,

‘I remember those days so fondly they make me shed a tear.

‘I left it all behind because I thought it was all a bit silly,

‘Then I became pregnant with your mum after meeting Grandad Billy.’

I gave her a hug and told her maybe those days don’t belong in the past,

And why didn’t she come and see Punk Nan, we’d all have such a blast!

Kids still call us names and this can be a test,

But now I have two Punk Nans and life is simply the best!

Neil Heath (c) 2025

Sorry Jarvis…

There’s a line in Spike Island, Pulp’s new song – ‘The universe shrugged, shrugged then moved on.’ It’s been taken as a comment on Jarvis Cocker’s and Pulp’s own popularity – after reaching the very top in 1995 / 96, they were swiftly heading back down without anyone really noticing. I can’t help feeling I let Jarvis down, ditching him for the ‘cool’ kids.

Pulp was the first band I ever related to. The songs were about the stuff I knew, I saw, I lived. A working class life. Jarvis would have loved the gossip in Hair by Melanie, my mum’s little corner shop hairdressers. She never knew I was listening, but I banked all the stories I shouldn’t have heard. Sex on pool tables after last orders, 30-year-old virgins being ‘shown the way’, customers discussing illicit affairs and inappropriate crushes. 

When I first heard Babies, I thought, yep, I would have definitely hid inside that wardrobe. Talking of which, this reminds me in a roundabout way of being invited into a friend’s bedroom while she and two other girls got changed for a night out. They didn’t see me like the other lads. I was like some benign asexual being deemed to have no interest in tits whatsoever. Well, I did, and I was so shocked at seeing the much discussed breasts of Emily Craven (not real name) reflected in the wardrobe mirror, that I didn’t even tell any of my mates. I kept it to myself. Maybe it didn’t really happen. 

Disco 2000. Fully experienced that. Watching the girls I had fallen for, the ones I had entertained, made laugh, supported and listened to, go off with someone with one brain cell and the personality of a sea slug. But he looks like Ryan Giggs, while I looked like Jonny Briggs, so, you know… can’t compete there. 

I always felt like an outsider. I was in the Misshapes gang, for sure. I remember reading the manifesto on the insert inside the CD single and thinking, ‘I’m on your side Jarvis’ and I couldn’t be prouder. I certainly got picked on at school and outside. I wasn’t afraid to tell people that I loved art, comics and a bit of Beethoven. The only reason I probably didn’t get beaten up was because I played football. Not that I was particularly good at it. Being a nerd and into football don’t usually go together. I stopped short of ever feeling the need to properly stand out. When my dad’s Colombian girlfriend bought me a knitted rucksack, with Aztec patterns, I politely declined the gift and gave it to my sister. ‘But all the boys in Paris have them.’ Can you imagine turning up for school, in Hucknall, with that on my back? During my university years, I once went back into Hucknall wearing a long Matrix-style leather jacket. I thought I looked magnificent and fucking cool. As soon as I stepped off the bus I got called ‘gay’.

Sorted for Es and Whizz. I never had the guts to do drugs. The Leah Betts story absolutely killed that for me. (Clearly all the stories about the alcohol related deaths did not). Despite the tabloid froth it was never a celebration about drugs, hence the last line of the song. I never had any desire to go to a rave either. Being given a map and location of the said rave would only lead to me being kidnapped and my kidneys cut out and sold. I’ve never wanted to be lost. A healthy mindset, perhaps. During an overnight outdoors ‘fun’ exercise for youth groups, I, the map reader, managed to get our team lost in the dark of Sherwood Forest. We arrived at a road, no sign of the hundreds of people taking part, and I remember thinking, ‘we’re dead, we’re absolutely fucked.’ So, a rave. No thanks. What the song does remind me of is the feeling that it wasn’t long before I could escape, before life would happen for me. Listening to Sorted in the car with a mate, dark fields around us, post-industrial, post-mining, post-anything Hucknall in the distance. It would soon all be left behind for a new life.

So much has been written about Common People, rightly so. I recognised a lot in the song, but it wasn’t as poignant as when I started university. Suddenly there were proper middle-class kids who had their own cars, paid-for gym memberships, not having to work because Daddy paid for it all. No full student grant? No bother. Why do Safeway when you can go to Waitrose? I remember having to put my mum’s income into my grant forms and feeling embarrassed for her.

I wanted to be Jarvis. At Rock City’s student nights I would pretend to be him and I didn’t care what anyone thought. I saw him and Pulp at the same venue and it still remains one of my favourite gigs, just because it was him and them. It should have carried on like that, but ahem, something changed (sorry). Regrettably I fell in with the group who, at school, would have shot darts at me from the back of the class. The sort who kicks your ball over the fence. ‘Fetch that y’ twat’. We’re talking Oasis here, of course. I fell for the lure of the troublemakers. I didn’t want to miss out. It felt like the cool kids had welcomed you in. A bit like when I was invited to red base, at school, during a wet break. But like red base you never really felt like you belonged. Knebworth was a fantastic experience, but largely for reasons that weren’t Oasis. I was with my best mate John for a start, the last time we spent time together before he went to university. The last adventure. I assumed this was it for us (We’re still mates 30 years on). I also saw for the first time, the Manics and The Charlatans, two bands who still mean so much more to me than Oasis ever did. 

That evening, I remember looking around as the front pen got more crowded and seeing Dennis Wise. Proof if ever than I didn’t belong with this lot.  It should have finished there really. After that day. But they limped on and on. And yes, I bought Be Here Now. 

Pulp released This is Hardcore during my first year at uni. I had a poster of Different Class Jarvis flicking the Vs on my wall. I bought the album as soon as it was released. It wasn’t His ‘n’ Hers or Different Class. Much darker. It reflected my mood at the time. Sad, lonely, pretty miserable. I liked it, but it wasn’t the same. I still have trouble getting through it. My interest dwindled. I didn’t bother with We Love Life. I only bought the Greatest Hits when it was on offer at HMV for a fiver. I didn’t go to the Sherwood Pines gig which looking back would have been amazing. The solo albums were ok. I loved Jarvis’ shows on Six Music or any interview he does. I even named my dog after him. His book Good Pop, Bad Pop is brilliant. An ingenious way of telling his life story through objects he’s taken from house to house in plastic bags, stored away in the attic. I’ll have to do my own version. Why I’ve kept the A-Team sticker album is a mystery.

In one of the many recent articles about Pulp’s new album (which is superb by the way) it said history has been kind to them. I think that’s true. They’re the only ones who have survived ‘Britpop’ with any real credibility. 

I never thought I’d get the chance to see Jarvis and Pulp perform again. You know when you get a sweat-on trying to purchase tickets, the fear that it’s all going to crash before you hit pay? That. Take my money. I’ll look at the price later. 

So swivel.