THE second gig in a glittering yet ultimately spectacularly unsuccessful DJing career was in the Furnace Arms in Scunthorpe. It was one of those glamour bookings, obviously.
I don’t think I would’ve got more than a tenner for taking my tunes down there – in a cardboard box – but I might even have done it for free beer. I can’t even remember what night of the week it was. It might’ve been Sunday. Then again, in Scunthorpe every day is like Sunday. Especially if it’s a wet Sunday in East Germany before the Wall came down.
