Ah, Rock Night at the Hotel Vic in New Brighton – a bacchanalian revelry of sound and spirit, a weekly pilgrimage in the waning years of the nineties. Those Wednesday evenings were the hallowed ground for us, the thirsty youth, seeking communion over pints and the raw, unfiltered rhythms of the emerging local bands. These nights were a tantalizing gamble, a veritable Russian roulette of musical prowess; you never quite knew if you’d be blessed with symphonic euphoria or subjected to a cacophony of well-intentioned but discordant strumming.

The allure, you see, was in this very uncertainty – the heartbeat of anticipation that drew us, moth-like, to the luminescent glow of the Hotel Vic. It was a microcosm of chaos and creation, where each strum, each drumbeat was a defiant cry against the mundanity of our everyday.

The saga of Rock Night truly unfurled its wings with the advent of The Hero PCs – oh, what a band! They were the match that lit the bonfire of what came to be known as the great band struggle of ’96 on the Wirral. A tumultuous, electric time, where every chord struck was a battle hymn, every lyric a manifesto. The Hero PCs, with their electrifying gigs at the Vic, were the heralds of this musical insurrection, a clarion call that resonated through our very souls.

The Hero PCs were:

• Ben Maffin
• Tim Games
• Mike Brassey
• Bob Sloane

Having spent the summer of 1996 practicing for their debut at the Rock Night in New Brighton The Hero PC’s were the first band of it’s kind in Mosslands School, Wallasey. Of course they were not the only musicians, but beforehand no-one else had made the leap from bedroom virtuoso to actually forming a group and getting gigs. Not surprisingly this was quite an event and even though the band members were at different colleges in September when the gigs and advertising began they still found time to practice at least once a week for sometimes for several hours without a break.

The dedication and hard work are what made The Hero PC’s such an interesting band to watch. Their performance wasn’t always note for note perfect, but they entertained – something which many of the other bands who played at the Vic never managed. A musical tightness existed between them which other bands tried to lament and failed. The occasional nod, or look from front man Tim Games would be enough to let the entire band know that he’d be doing something wacky – almost like the group was psychic. Certainly they had a chemistry between them; whether this was because they were all old friends, or these things turn out that way it didn’t matter – it was there in The Hero PC’s and the audience loved it.

A most memorable time was when The Hero PC’s appeared on stage at the Hotel Vic with their underpants on their heads and launched into Happy Birthday for a member of the audience completely unpracticed and rumours has it not even discussed. It went down a storm and they got three encores – something never matched in Rock Night ever again.

In the tender cradle of time, nestled between the twilight of adolescence and the dawn of scholarly pursuit, there came a juncture, a parting of the ways for The Hero PCs. For nigh on two revolutions around the sun, these minstrels of the Mersey had woven their harmonies into the very fabric of our beings. But as the siren call of University beckoned, it was to be that their fellowship would dissolve into the mists of destiny.

Those sacred rites at the Rock Night, held in the bosom of the Hotel Victoria in New Brighton, have since been etched into the annals of local legend. The drama, oh the drama! A tempest of passion and power chords that could make even the most stoic of hearts quiver. The beer, flowing like ambrosia, lubricating the souls and the soles of all who gathered. The girls, the muses of the night, igniting the air with their laughter and dance. And the music, that sweet, raucous symphony that still echoes through the chambers of memory.

But let us speak of legacy, for The Hero PCs were not merely a band. No, they were a phenomenon, a catalyst that set the ether ablaze with their sonic alchemy. The youth, who once huddled in the shadows of those hallowed walls, will forever bear the mark of The Hero PCs’ influence. Their sound, a clarion call that resonated through the sinews of the local music scene, has become the benchmark of raw, untamed artistry.

And so, though the band may have scattered like seeds to the academic winds, their impact lingers, as indelible as the stars upon the firmament. Few indeed will forget the nights when The Hero PCs held court, when they were kings and queens of their domain, and we, their loyal subjects, were willingly swept away in the rapture of their reign.

The Hero PCs photos of them playing in NEW BRIGHTON at THE HOTEL VICTORIA on Victoria Road. Here we have the Hero PCs passing through security at the Hotel Vic. There was a large security presence on their debut night due to the successful advertising campaign drawing a greater than normal crowd. It was rumoured that The Hotel Vic doubled their allowed number of people in that night to 700 – though conservative estimates put the figure closer to 500 paying people. The Hero PCs did it all for free of course. Not only were they excellent musicians, good lovers and philosophers, they were also nice guys too.

Above is an example of the crazy advertising Tim used to use for the gigs, often seen at ‘Geoffs’ corner store.

Once in, the Hero PCs didn’t hang around and got straight into their set, kicking off with O2 Debt. O2 Debt rang of money and insanity. Hearing this played live sent a shiver down your spine with its sheer genius.

The photo captures a snapshot of a bygone era, a moment of raw, unrefined musical endeavour. The Hero PCs, in mid-performance in the ballroom of the Hotel Vic in New Brighton. The setting oozes a vintage charm, with opulent wallpaper and a classic patterned carpet, evoking the days of old-school rock gigs.

To the left stands Moonbag, with his microphone stand before him, donning a casual grey t-shirt and jeans, his posture relaxed yet commanding. His hair flops nonchalantly over his forehead, a visual anthem of the era’s youth culture. Next to him, Captain Maff is engrossed in his craft, wielding his guitar with practised ease. His attire, a white shirt and a baseball cap complements the laid-back aesthetic of the scene. To Moonbag’s right is Demon Bob, whacking out the slap funk.

The stage is set, with a drum kit awaiting its cue in the background, flanked by modest amplifiers. The scattered cables on the floor and the conspicuous lack of a crowd suggest a soundcheck or a rehearsal, a moment of calm before the storm of a live performance. It candidly portrays musicians in their element, a prelude to the energy and connection that live music embodies.

If you have any other photos of the Hero PCs or the Hotel Vic Rock Night please get in touch using the contact page.

Well into their third encore the Hero PCs are still going strong and playing the Rock Night favourite ‘Indie Chick’. This track is one of the most racy and popular ever created by the Hero PCs. Tim Game’s lyrics complement the style of the music perfectly with talk of fast cars and becoming a Hero PC!

Ah, nestled within the folds of time, a missive of adoration and exaltation, penned by a disciple of the auditory alchemy that was The Hero PCs. This letter, a sacred scroll, hails from one Leanne Hunter, a damsel whose abode graced the streets of Coniston Avenue in Wallasey, upon the mystical lands of the Wirral.

In her script, Leanne weaves a tapestry of words that sing praises to the nights at the Hotel Vic in New Brighton, those hallowed evenings baptized in the fire and fervor of New Brighton Rock. Her words, they dance upon the page, a ballet of sentiment and memory, capturing the essence of what it was to be there, amidst the throng of souls, in the presence of the Hero PCs.

She speaks of greatness, not in the mundane sense of the word, but with a reverence reserved for the divine. Her prose is drenched in the euphoria that only true art can evoke, a testament to the transformative power of music and the transcendence of the moment.

Leanne’s letter, this artifact of devotion, is a mirror to our own experiences, reflecting the unspoken bond shared by those who were there, who witnessed, who felt. It’s a reminder of the electric pulse of youth, of nights spent in rapture, under the spell of melodies that shaped our very beings. In her words, we find our own voice, our own echo of an era that, like a comet, blazed brilliantly across our skies, leaving us forever altered in its wake.

Behold, a relic from the annals of time – a flyer, a parchment of revelry from the hallowed Hotel Victoria, dated September 1997. Picture it, if you will: The Hero PC’s, those minstrels of the night, are primed for their magnum opus. The air, thick with the heady brew of anticipation and ale, pulsates with the untamed heartbeats of a legion of teenagers. Ah, the youth, a sea of burgeoning souls, teetering on the precipice of adulthood, yet tonight, they are marinated not in the worries of the morrow, but in the sweet nectar of illicit sips of alcohol.

The sound chaps are there, orchestrating the cacophony into symphony, setting the stage for what is to be more than a gig – it’s a coronation, for The Hero PC’s are not mere participants in this nocturnal festivity, they are the sovereigns, the monarchs of melody.

And oh, the libations flow like the river Styx, ferrying these spirited souls further into the night. This flyer, this unassuming piece of paper, is more than an advertisement; it’s a testament, a herald of the popularity that was New Brighton Rock at the Hotel Victoria. A weekly odyssey, a pilgrimage to the temple of sound and spirit, where the cover charge was not just currency, but a rite of passage.

There you have it, the very essence of that time captured, where every week, without fail, we congregated under the banner of The Hero PC’s, in that sacred space of our collective memory, where we were, for a fleeting moment, infinite.

Behold! A parchment, a sacred text of the Hero PC’s, a playlist that to the untrained eye might appear as naught but a tempest of titles and tunes, a maelstrom of musical mayhem. Yet, this seemingly chaotic compilation is but a cosmic dance of order and intuition, a testament to the telepathic unity achieved by these troubadours through endless nocturnes of practice.

These minstrels of the modern age, they needed not the rigidity of order, for within them pulsed the very rhythm of creation itself. Their list, a simple scroll of intentions, was the only compass required to navigate the vast seas of sound. With each item, a nod, a glance, they would dive, fearless and free, into the next opus, transitioning with the grace of a celestial ballet, each segue as smooth as silk spun from the looms of the Fates themselves.

And oh, the repertoire! A patchwork quilt of auditory artistry, weaving their own soul-spun anthems like ‘02 Debt‘ amidst the legendary tapestries of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, the insurgent anthems of Green Day, the searing soliloquies of Hendrix, and the plaintive poetry of Neil Young. Each piece, a thread in the vibrant tapestry of the evening, each chord struck, a star in the constellation of their performance. This list, my friends, was not just a guide, but a gateway to the divine dance of their music-making.

This song paints a portrait of paradox and contrasts, a narrative rich with irony and social commentary. It tells the story of a man who, despite possessing immense wealth, chooses to live as though he has none. He owns a mansion but opts instead for the spartan existence of a cardboard box, a choice that seems to stem from a fear of engaging with the financial responsibilities his wealth incurs.

The character is described as having connections to people across the social spectrum, from friends living in dire poverty to the ability to indulge in opulent settings like France. He has the means to own grand symbols of wealth like Hollywood and New York, yet he confines himself to a transient lifestyle, one that suggests choice rather than necessity.

The song goes on to detail his peculiar habits that are more in line with those of a person experiencing homelessness than a wealthy individual. His aversion to washing his coat for fear of it shrinking, his buying cigarettes one at a time for what he perceives as a bargain, and his maintaining two bank accounts—one for small change and one for large sums—further illustrate this duality.

In the concluding verses, the man sells his cardboard dwelling—a deluxe model, humorously noted with air vents and barcodes—and embarks on a new venture in Pakistan to become a “tycoon in tea.” The departure is mourned by the narrator, who questions why the man would leave when he could have stayed in a place like Juventus for free, hinting perhaps at missed opportunities or a lack of appreciation for what he had.

Ultimately, the song seems to be a commentary on the absurdity of wealth and how it can distance individuals from reality. It muses on the choices of the wealthy to either isolate themselves from societal issues or to engage with them in ways that are eccentric or ineffective. The repeated question of “why” underscores the mystery of the man’s motivations and reflects on the often inexplicable nature of human behavior, especially when viewed through the lens of wealth and social status.

Click here to see lyrics plain text.

Indie Chick hums with the vibrations of indie rock’s restless soul, strumming through a narrative of longing and dissonance. It’s a serenade to a young woman, who embodies a spirit of independence and nonconformity. The lyrics are a canvas, splashed with the hues of emotion and the silhouettes of a relationship that is as enigmatic as it is intense.

The song’s opening verses speak to a laissez-faire attitude toward possession and need, with the lead singer expressing a carefree confidence when the girl is by his side. Yet, there’s an undercurrent of something more, hinted at by the references to “Discounts + cheesy ball bearings” and “Nightflights + Early weekends,” suggesting a lifestyle of spontaneity and perhaps a penchant for the unorthodox.

The refrain—”Do I want you? Do I need you?”—is a poignant echo of uncertainty, a refrain that repeats like a mantra of indecision, punctuated by a solitary question mark that hangs in the air, unresolved.

Then, the mood shifts to a desire for separation, a contemplation of leaving to find a vacant space away from the presence of this indie girl. It’s a declaration of independence from the singer himself, a statement of desire to break free from an orbit that is both alluring and suffocating.

Amidst the personal turmoil, the song weaves in broader themes of ambition and escape, with “Psycho stars all waiting for the top,” suggesting a yearning for success and recognition, yet paired with a patience that sets the singer apart from the frenzy.

The narrative then crashes into a critique of reckless masculinity with “Stupid boys in suped-up motorcars” and the tragic consequences that follow, painting a stark contrast to the singer’s quest for a “better life.”

Closing with an intriguing twist, the song reveals a yearning to transform, to leave behind the chaos and become a “hero PC,” perhaps a clever nod to the band’s name, or maybe a deeper desire to reinvent oneself.

And draped over this entire ballad is a veil of mystery—was this indie chick the muse behind the melody, the heart that beat beneath the rhythm of these words? The lead singer’s silence on the matter leaves the tale shrouded in whispers, an enigma wrapped in the chords of a song that refuses to be pinned down, much like the indie chick herself.

Click here to see the plain text lyrics.

The Wirral Show, a colossal festival of the senses, a spectacle drawing the multitudes like moths to the flame of festivity.

In this great gathering of souls, The Hero PCs, our heroes of the hour, unleashed a symphony short in duration but eternal in memory, their set a firework of fervent chords and choruses, ablaze in the summer’s apex. They reveled in the chaos of creativity, the sweet anarchy of art.

And oh, the odyssey to enter that hallowed field! A tale to be told, a saga of such raucous spirit! For amidst the throng and thrum, our own Tim Games, a knight errant on his steed of steel, rode not within but upon the bonnet of Roy Brassey’s noble Nissan. A spectacle, a sight to behold, as they navigated the tidal waves of eager humanity, a chariot charging towards their destiny.

This poster, this fragment of history, speaks of more than a show; it whispers of the wild abandon, the unity of purpose, the joyous tumult that The Hero PCs birthed in the heart of the Wirral that day. It was not just an event; it was an eruption of ecstasy, a moment when time stood still, and music was the only language we needed to understand the beauty of life’s unfathomable tapestry.

Ah, the perpetual carousel of invitations to partake in the electric church of rock and roll, each one a siren’s song, beckoning us to congregate in the temple of sound. This time, the call to arms comes from the hallowed halls of the Wallasey Rugby Club, Cross Lane, Wallasey. A place, I confess, where the sacred sport of rugby seemed ever eclipsed by the more spirited rituals of libation and laughter.

And lo! We were anointed to play the heralds, the opening act for the illustrious Space Cadets (or is it Kadets? The mists of time do swirl mischievously around the spelling). A band not just of notes and chords, but of legend, their silhouettes etched into the very walls of the Black Horse, where at the tender age of sixteen, I first swam in the heady waters of illicitly quaffed ales, a baptism of sorts into a world far more exhilarating than any pixelated adventure or digital dalliance of the present day.

To say that these Space Cadets, or Kadets, rocked is to utter a truth so profound it reverberates through the ages. They may now stride the earth a touch more ponderously, their youthful leanness surrendered to the inexorable march of time, but by Jove, their music still summons the fire!

Yet, to dredge the depths of memory for the details of this particular gig at Wallasey Rugby Club is an endeavor fraught with uncertainty. The recollections are a kaleidoscope, fragments of sound and fury, they could as well belong to the raucous celebration of my father’s 40th revolution around the sun or the revelry of my own ascension to the ripe age of eighteen, both joyously and riotously held within those very same walls.

What lingers is not the specifics of the setlist or the encore cries, but the essence, the spirit of the times—a spirit undiluted by the sobering sobriety of adulthood. A time when to drink, to dance, to discover music as if it were a new continent was to truly feel the thrumming heart of life itself. Ah, those were the days, my friends, days of mirth and mischief, forever dancing in the shadows of our yesterdays.