Joining the surge of punks escaping the Concorde 2 before the dance kids took over, I was battered, bruised and my T-shirt was torn to shreds.

My ears hurt and I had lost my voice. But at least I still had my trousers and trainers on, unlike the unfortunate chap in front of me.

Yeah, it was that kind of night. Stepping on stage to a screech of feedback, Pete Shelley's strangled spaniel yelp carried his greying gang through 70 minutes of classics, seamlessly interspersed with tunes from the new LP, simply titled Buzzcocks.

From the moment the first fuzzed-up power chords chimed out, the venue was in meltdown.

Manchester's Buzzcocks were the least politicised of the groups to emerge from the 1976/77 punk explosion and their songs remain the most timeless.

Unlike most of their contemporaries, they still know how to rock.

And if anyone finds that poor soul's sneakers, give me a buzz and I'll try to reunite them.