Yeah, so… The Firedogs. What’s to say?

They’ve been around. Seen a thing or two.

Chasing cars, as dogs do.

Gone briefly, but back again;

now renewed.

The old new black.

The old, now back.



Lord knows what the bald one at the front is saying, but he yodels with conviction;

The bass is deliciously chunky and goes down smooth;

The guitar whines and screams and crackles

like the spawn of caged lightning and some cackling vixen;

and the drums, oh, the drums…

It’s all there mate. The real McCoy.

As good on stage as it is in the booth.


Thirty odd years in the making;

Grown near London town

but brewed elsewhere;

aged to perfection

in an oak cask

down by Brighton.

Fancy a drop?

Well, by all means,

so long as you savour the flavour

and aren’t easily frightened:


The back of the bottle recommends you drink the whole lot –

in through the ear-hole and prepare for a shock.


These ain’t your nan’s dogs.

Your old dogs.

Your sold dogs.

Your capitalist fat gods.


Dogs will be dogs – or no, not quite.


These are the Late Road –

Wait that’s not right…


These are The Firedogs

and be warned:


They bite.