Sex, Drugs and Dogfood

IT'S SUNDAY and dark brooding August waves are licking the concrete face of England's tackiest town. Blackpool is resplendent in its arrogance, the candyflossed facade brashly failing to hide the fact that it is cheap and ultimately available. Walking along the prom towards that testament to the Victorian Male ego, The Tower, you know that Blackpool is lost in time, always there but somehow never quite making it. A legend on its own coastline, Blackpool's enduring sense of anti-style, to those who would come here in their millions, is irrepressible. To those of you who would never dream of making the trip it is a picture postcard in the collective consciousness - the sleazy, tawdry town of kiss-me-quick. The shag capital of the North.

In a town full of legends, I've come to call on one of the greatest of them all. Blackpool has a staggering history of musical greats: The Nolans, the quiet one from Soft Cell, the even quieter one from the Pet Shop Boys, Orville, the list is endless. It is however a little known fact that Blackpool was also the home of Punk. Long before Manchester was known for anything apart from being wet, this was where it was at. A&R men would roam the clubs of the early eighties hoping to spot raw talent like The Membranes, signed and then banned from every gig South of the Ribble, The Fits, last heard of working in telesales in London, and Dogfood, the greatest band there ever was.

Dogfood are part of Blackpool folklore. They drank, shagged and smashed their way into the hearts of the Northwest for twelve years. They won Rock Battles, headlined at clubs and beat up anyone who got in their way. Gods with guitars and guts, which they didn't mind displaying from the inside out, their lack of national acclaim is one of the tragedies of the age. Here in Blackpool though the myth lives on and nowhere more vividly than in the front room of an end terrace behind Bloomfield Road, home of soccer legend Sir Stanley Matthews and The Big One, Europe's biggest and fastest Roller Coaster thrill.

Sprawling, or should I say flailing, across a black leather sofa is the sexiest man in Blackpool since Les Dawson died. His magnificent, thirty-something head, framed by the sort of locks Samson would give his eye-teeth for, raises slowly and he grins. It's the grin to give mothers sleepless nights and incite doubt and depression into lesser male mortals - that or they want to smash it to pieces. Either way this smile fills the room to such an extent that you hardly notice the plastic model ship on the fireplace or the copy of Viz hiding under a cushion. A wide smile, long hair and leather - it's all we need to know. "Sit down, we'd better be quick, me Mum's in the kitchen." God has spoken.

"The Blay," "The" to his intimates (and Colin to his Mum but don't tell anybody) has been the lead singer of Dogfood since he can't remember. He does, however remember becoming a star, "It was 1976 and the Mighty Pop was on Top of the Pops and my life changed..." He is everything a rock legend should be - tall, dangerous and frighteningly attractive. He has the sort of looks that are as compulsive as a car crash and an attitude to match. He's grinning again and you could almost believe you were in L.A. Leaping to his boot strapped feet, he lunges at a pile of black and white stills on the floor. "There you go - that's the last gig we did. Fucking mental!" I look at the pictures in front of me and see his magnificent head devouring a mike, another shows him rising from the ashes of dry ice like some crazed demon. Now it's my turn to smile. "Fancy a cuppa?" Blay asks and disappears into the kitchen with his Mum.

Looking at these photos, I remember the first time I saw Dogfood live. It was in 1986 and the then drummer, Rabid Dave, was wearing fishnets he'd borrowed from a friend of mine. Blay speaks of Dogfood's numerous drummers with unflinching affection, "All miserable bastards!" In front of this abortive attempt at cross dressing staggered Blay, like Jim Morrison without the pretension, reeling, bottle in hand, above a baying audience of frenzied hangers-on. It was hypnotic and I was starstruck - this was Rock in the raw and we loved it. By the time the ambulance arrived to take Blay, bleeding from self inflicted wounds to hospital, one of his regular gigs, we were hooked. Dogfood live were an addictive experience and therein lies the tale of their demise.

Back in the front room we are sipping tea. Blay hardly touches alcohol now, long gone are the days when he used to bite chunks out of pint glasses for a laugh. Not that he looks like a man back from the brink. His muscled limbs are tanned and sinewed and he gives the impression that he could tear you apart as soon as look at you, but he is scarred.

The front of his chest that his slashed black T-shirt deliberately fails to hide, bears a miniature replica of the Battle of the Somme. Lines of scar tissue converge on the latest wound. "Bloody doctors! They take one look at your records and they write you off. I had to cut the bloody thing out myself." At this point Blay recounts his latest battle with the authorities to try and have a lump on his chest removed. It turned out not to be serious but it was causing him grief, in the end he resorted to d-i-y surgery and sorted it. "I've been staying in a lot since, watching films, listening to the Ig - still the king of Rock," he bemoans, "I'm boring as hell." I suggest it might be time to get another life. He laughs, "Hanging on to this one is a full time occupation."

Retired from rock he may be but he is still sewn into a pair of leathers that should be labelled Parental Advisory. The rest of the band are still around, married, working, whatever, but the Dogfood era seems to be at an end. Blay has survived alcohol, drugs and a close brush with 'settling down' but he remains irrepressible. He has charm by the bucket load and knows it. He doesn't go out much in Blackpool these days because young pretenders to his throne keep challenging him: "I give them two choices - go away or die. But they still won't leave me alone." It's hard being a rock legend. At this point his Mum calls from the kitchen, I have detained her son too long. I say my goodbyes and Blay gives me a hug that could keep osteopaths in business for life, he also gives me a photo, "Take that one, I look dead mean," he grins.

Walking back along the Golden Mile, knowing I probably won't be back for a long time, I stop to look up at The Tower. There's an inflatable gorilla hanging about half way up and it's grinning. Down below the holiday masses surge on to the next cheap pint, looking for the seven miles of family fun they were promised in the brochure. Only in Blackpool could they ignore King Kong, but where else would he still be climbing?

Jane Bluett