They’ve got proper jobs and kids, and sing about sheds rather than smashing the system. Mary Bowers meets the forty and fiftysomething dads who are keeping the spirit of punk alive
In the dressing room before the big gig, Dan Nichols asks for a piece of paper to write
down his lyrics: his memory is not what it used to be.
“Reading the paper,” Nichols, 46, says slowly, his tongue hanging out of his mouth in
concentration. He runs a leather-clad hand through his gel-spiked hair.
“Sorting out me jam jars,” offers Chris Walker, 42, fixing the badges on his
“Potting me tomatoes?” asks Mike Mole, 48, fastening the safety pins that hold
together his “iconic” cardigan. That line apparently comes later.
The song, entitled , Nichols explains, is dedicated to the one place that dads go to
find refuge from their children. In walks Steve Jones, 42, clutching his drumsticks in
fingerless leather gloves. He looks over Nichols’s shoulder. “Having a cup of tea,” he
Fifteen minutes later they have fixed their outfits and, clad in studded leather and
red slogans, Nichols, Walker, Mole and Jones assume their alter egos: Sid Life Crisis,
Joe Strimmer, Johnny Cardigan, and Adrian Viles. Together they are Punks Not Dad.
Punks Not Dad rarely rehearse. They write their lyrics over e-mail and record demos
at home. After their kids have gone to bed, they vent the things that make them
angry: no one understands their man flu; Tesco has run out of Wagon Wheels;they’re covered in spilt baby food.
anyway here is their anthem to sheds and last years Song for Shed Week like Song for Europe but with more sheds.