A life of glitz and glam... or stranded at a service station

We drink Champagne with A-listers, hang out with the gliteratti and get so bored with receiving party invitations that we make them into paper planes and dart them at passers-by from the 96th floor of our ivory tower.

But not every gig is to die for. There are times when we're not pow-wowing with the next big thing, when the cup of corporate hospitality runs dry.

The Macc Lads were one of the world's worst bands. They appeared at Wolverhampton's Civic Halls on May 26, 1989. The date is burned into my memory, like the scorch marks on a flame-grilled Burger King Double Whopper.

The hard-rocking punks from Macclesfield had been due to play Walsall's Junction 10 six months earlier – and I'd got them banned. Their proclamations of being the 'rudest, crudest, lewdest, drunkest band in Christendom' had made them easy pickings. Local dignitaries were outraged that they were about to sully the town's rep and the venue promoters had pulled the plug.

It wasn't the first time it had happened. During a dishonourable career, The Macc Lads were ejected from Macclesfield, London, Huddersfield, Bury, Cornwall, Blackpool – where they urinated on the cenotaph –, Cheltenham, Norwich and the USA. Yes, all of it.

Fifty states of America turned them down. That's a banning order covering 3.79 million square miles and 318 million people.

Wolverhampton took them in though, like a Good Samaritan welcoming the dispossessed.

A week before the gig, their agent called. In an act of heroic chivalry, he asked me if I'd like to be their guest. We'd catch up after to drink and eat. I took the bait, like a mouse being offered cheese laced with Formula B.

The gig was rubbish. Drunk, homophobic, sexist and unreconstructed: The Macc Lads ability to slaughter serviceable tunes beneath a tsunami of low-rent, overtly controversial barnstorming was the evening's only notable feature.

After they gig, I met with The Beater, Phil 'Fast Fret' McCavity and Chorley The Hord.

"Fancy some food?," they asked. I nodded, glumly. We boarded The Macc Van and sped out of town. The words 'gullible' were writ large across my forehead.

We drove along the Cannock Road and hit the M6. Memories of my Macc Lads 'banned from Walsall' front page came back to haunt me. As the speedo raced to 100mph, a gang of angry Macc lads went quiet. This was their revenge.

Somewhere near Keele, we pulled into a motorway service station. "So this is where we're going for food?" I said, as we crossed the car park, walking to an all-night joint serving limp fries and inadequate coffee. They span on their heels, quick as a flash, and legged it. I was dumped. No phone, no money, no car, no hope.

Ha. Stuff the Macc Lads. I was in luck. Arsenal had beaten Liverpool at Anfield that evening to win the 1989 First Division. The service station was rammed with happy Londoners, making their way south. They were partying like Keith Richards at a Columbian rave.

Within minutes, I was swept up in the fun. The adrenalin-fuelled bonhomie erased memories of an execrable gig.

After a while, I hitched a lift and was safely deposited beside my car, in Wolverhampton.

The following day, the Macc Lads agent called.

"Did you have a good night?" he asked, darkly.

"Loved it." I laughed. And hung up.

Keith Harrison is away