In 1981 Dave Stewart (no not the Eurythmic) had made the  unlikely transition from progressive rock icon (Hatfield and  the North, National Health, Bruford) to pop star. His  keyboard and Claptrap dominated version of Jimmy Ruffins  'What Becomes Of The Broken Hearted,' featuring the lead  vocals of Colin Blunstone, had reached the dizzy pop heights  of number 12. They even appeared on Top Of The Pops with a  backing vocalist called Amanda Parsons and some idiot  wearing a ludicrous black and white jump suit that Dave  borrowed from a friend's wife (Yes, all right, it was me).  At the same time Dave had formed a new band called 'Rapid  Eye Movement' (He thought of it first). The group included  Dave's friend and colleague drummer Pip Pyle, a bass player  called Rick and some idiot who insisted on wearing a  ludicrous black and white jump suit that Dave borrowed from  a friend's wife. The band played some old Hatfield stuff, some new  compositions by Dave and Pip and some of my songs. As a  result of Dave's new found fame the agent had managed to  obtain more gigs than usual. The problem was that people  were coming to see 'Broken Hearted' and atmospheric material  of a similar ilk, but what they got for their money was  bombastic, complicated jazz rock featuring loud screaming  electric guitar from the idiot wearing the ludicrous black  and white jump suit, etc. Early on in the tour the long  haired greatcoat wearing train spotters would gather at the  front to examine our gear, whilst the sensibly attired and  sanely coiffured contingent cowered at the back with their  hands over their ears. Once they eventually heard a version  of 'Broken Hearted,' they made no excuses and left. It was the beginning of summer and we were booked to play at  an agricultural college in Bedford. It was a beautiful scene  - the majestic sweeping grounds at the back of the college  buildings made the perfect setting for the first outdoor  event of the season. The large stage looked out on to  manicured lawns, a small woodland and the valley below.  Stage right was a large white marquee containing a bar and  right at the back was another marquee serving food. Stage  left was an ox slowly roasting on a manually turned spit for  eventual consumption that evening. There was something  strangely familiar to me about the place though that made me  feel slightly uncomfortable. I tried to put it to back of my  mind as we soundchecked. There was a warm and convivial atmosphere about the place  as dusk fell. The support band 'Supercharge' had enhanced  this as they charmed the future farmers of Great Britain  with their witty and entertaining set. All was going very  well and then.... well we came on. The sight of open mouths  and expressions of disbelief and confusion in front of me as  we played our opening tune did not augur well. A few numbers  in and we really got the crowd going, to the toilets and the  beer tent mostly. I just wanted to get through this and get  home with some semblance of pride intact. Halfway through  'Ingmar Bergman On The Windowsill' (don't ask) I saw the  small crowd in front of me back away very quickly as if a  fight had broken out. What had actually happened was the  arrival of ten or so hairy, drunk, biker types pushing each  other and idiot dancing. I tried to pretend that we were  playing at a festival full with partisan fans desperate for  something wacky in 5/8. When I next looked down the Bedford  chapter of Hell's Angels had focused their attention on me.  There were, to put it bluntly, taking the piss. Caricatured  versions of my guitar stance and vocal posturing were  accompanied by pointing and waving whenever I dared to look  over in their direction. This was a nightmare, and it was getting worse. I looked  straight ahead and slightly up so all I could see was the  tops of the trees. Frequently I just closed my eyes. As our  set progressed, like a musical car crash in slow motion, I  somehow summoned the courage to look down again. To my great  relief, they had gone. I was filled with a sudden resurgence  of confidence and was no longer put off by the dwindling  size of the crowd. Sod them, I thought. A few minutes later  my brief return to sanity came to an abrupt end as I heard,  and indeed felt, a loud and sickening thud to my immediate  left. The hairy bikers had not left in order to hassle some  other innocent bystanders, but to remove the greasy remains  of the now eaten ox carcass from the spit at the side of the  grounds. They then managed to carry this unwieldy beast back  in front of us and with some effort hurl the damn thing on  to the stage. I turned round just in time to see it sliding down stage  in its own juices, only stopping when it hit the drum riser.  It was then that the uncomfortable feeling I had experienced  earlier in the day explained itself. Two years prior to this  fiasco I had played here with 'Warren Harry.' A cheap and  nasty pop/punk hybrid that I had joined for the money. After  that gig I went to get something from the van and en route a  group of young lads stopped me. 'Hey, weren't you the guitar  player in the band earlier?' I feigned a bit of mock modesty  and smiled 'Well yes actually.' I seriously thought that  they were going to ask for my autograph, but instead one of  them hit me in the mouth. Some time later, and somewhat  drunker, the same group of aggro culturists put a poor bloke  through a plate glass window, and he severed an artery. Two  years on and I was pondering the indignity of nearly being  killed on stage, crushed by a semi eaten bovine carcass. It  just doesn't have the same rock and roll kudos as a drug  overdose does it?