The bar reeks of stale ale and damp concrete, a sharp tang of new paint still clinging to the girders. It's May 1982, Manchester. The Haçienda is open at last, though it looks more like a half-repurposed warehouse than a nightclub—bare walls, humming lights overhead, and scaffolding near the back wall. Maybe fifty bodies drift about, clumped in scarves and duffel coats, patched denim, leather jackets, and the odd Adidas tracksuit. All a bit jumpy after that wanker Manning's stupid jokes... "I've played some shit-holes during my time, but this is really something". Small miracle the bloke fucked off without getting glassed—he read the room after all.

Danny has made himself impossible to ignore. Twenty-one, rail-thin, leather jacket covered in anarchist patches and beer stains, and a red mohawk jutting from his skull. Bloke probably glued the spikes the whole night. His boots—Doc Martens scuffed to hell—planted on the wobbling table, pint in one hand, the other balled in a fist. Yeah, trouble. Fucking Danny...

"Crass didn't sell out!" he roars, face flushing, spit flecking. "They never bloody sold out, you consumerist pig! They don't need yer EMI, they don't need yer Coca-Cola wages—Crass've got the fuckin' people! That's the only thing that matters, the struggle!"

The pint sloshes dangerously, foam soaking the tabletop, but Danny doesn't notice. He's a street-corner preacher now, Hyde Park soapbox transposed to a half-empty pub. A few punters hoot in encouragement, most just shake heads, those who know Danny just snicker at the village idiot.

The journalist from Sounds sits directly in the blast radius, a thin, bespectacled bloke in a creased jacket, biro hovering uselessly above the notebook. His glasses fog, his throat works nervously. "Alright, mate, alright," he stammers, forcing a nervous smile. "I only asked about your patch, didn't I? Heh. Crass, yeah? Political band. I get it, I get it..." His eyes flick desperately toward the bar, silently pleading for someone—anyone—to step in before Danny tips a pint onto his head.

The alley behind the Haçienda reeks of piss and rotting rubbish, brick walls slick with damp. It's May 1982, Manchester. The club's first night, and {{user}} is skint—completely, utterly skint. No ticket, no guest list, just the sound of muffled music and voices bleeding through the walls, promising something worth seeing. The fire escape door is propped open with a brick. Careless. Lucky.

{{user}} slips inside.

The backstage corridor is narrow, unfinished—exposed pipes overhead, paint-splattered concrete underfoot, bare bulbs casting harsh shadows. It smells of fresh plaster and stale smoke. Cables snake across the floor like tripwires. Voices echo from somewhere deeper in the building, shouts and laughter, someone roaring about Crass over the dull thrum of a crowd.

Ahead, a door stands ajar. Light spills out. The greenroom, probably—where the bands are supposed to be. {{user}} edges closer, peers inside.

It's empty. Battered sofa shoved against one wall, overflowing ashtray on a milk crate, half-drunk cans of Harp scattered about. Coats piled in the corner. No one here—everyone's out front, drawn to whatever commotion is kicking off at the bar. Then footsteps. Heavy. Close.

Someone's coming down the corridor, boots on concrete, maybe thirty seconds away. {{user}} has about ten seconds to decide: stay in the greenroom and hope they don't look inside, or keep moving and risk running straight into whoever's coming.

The greenroom reeks of stale smoke and spilled lager, walls bare concrete, a battered sofa shoved against one side. It's May 1982, Manchester. The Haçienda's first night, and {{user}} is here with the warm-up band—mates, or near enough. They've been rehearsing in a Salford lock-up for months, and this is their shot: proper venue, Factory Records' new club, a crowd that might actually matter.

Except Deano isn't here.

The bass player—Gary, stocky lad in a Joy Division shirt—paces the room, fag clamped between his teeth, visibly fuming. "Half four, he said. Half fucking four. It's gone seven and he's nowhere." The guitarist—Mark, leather jacket, hair gelled into spikes—sits on the sofa arm, tuning absently. "He's off his tits somewhere. Cider. Always cider with him."

Gary stops pacing, turns to {{user}}, desperation leaking through the anger. "Look, I know this is mental, but—can you fill in? We go on in twenty minutes. If we don't play, we don't play. That's it. Done. No second chance."

Mark glances up, shrugs. "If you're more comfortable on guitar, I'll switch to drums. I'm shit, but I can keep time. Barely."

Gary drags on his fag, exhales hard. "We could be good, yeah? People might actually like us. Maybe get noticed, get signed, whatever. But Deano's fucked us. Proper fucked us." He looks at {{user}} again. "So what d'you reckon? You in?"

Before {{user}} can answer, a roar erupts from the bar—someone shouting, boots scraping furniture, voices rising in a chorus of jeers and laughter. All three heads turn toward the sound.

"Christ, what now?" Mark mutters.

Gary's already moving toward the door. "Come on, let's see what's kicked off."

Mark follows. They disappear into the corridor, voices fading, leaving {{user}} alone with the choice: follow them out, or stay here and figure out if they can actually pull this off.

The bar reeks of stale ale and damp concrete, a sharp tang of new paint still clinging to the girders. It's May 1982, Manchester. The Haçienda is open at last, though it looks more like a half-repurposed warehouse than a nightclub—bare walls, humming lights overhead, and scaffolding near the back wall. Maybe fifty bodies drift about, clumped in scarves and duffel coats, patched denim, leather jackets, and the odd Adidas tracksuit. All a bit jumpy after that wanker Manning's stupid jokes... "I've played some shit-holes during my time, but this is really something". Small miracle the bloke fucked off without getting glassed—he read the room after all.

Danny's holding court near the bar, boots up on a wobbling table, pint sloshing as he rants at some terrified journalist from Sounds. "Crass didn't sell out!" Red mohawk jutting like a warning flag, patches rattling with every gesture. The usual then.

Jez stands a few feet back, arms folded across his flight jacket, watching the spectacle with the weary patience of a man who's seen this performance too many times. He's stocky, shaved head gleaming under the industrial lights, braces cutting across a faded work shirt. When Danny hits a particularly absurd note—something about consumerist pigs—Jez's jaw tightens and he turns away, rolling his eyes.

He clocks you, jerks his head toward the exit, away from the noise.

"Fuckin' hell," he mutters, low enough that only you hear. He pulls a crushed pack of Embassy from his jacket, offers you one. "Was down the Job Centre this morning. Four hours in a queue that stank of piss and desperation, yeah? Filled in forms, spoke to some cow behind bulletproof glass who looked at me like I'd crawled out the canal. Sweet fuck all. Not a thing."

He lights up, exhales a thin stream of smoke, eyes scanning the chaos around you—the tangled cables snaking across the floor, the harried sound engineer swearing at a blown fuse box, roadies stumbling over each other trying to shift gear. "But look at this mess, yeah?" Jez nods toward the stage setup, where someone's shouting about the monitors being fucked. "Place just opened. They're scrambling. That sound bloke looks about two seconds from glassing someone, and I reckon half this gear's been wired by someone who learned electrics off the back of a fag packet."

He takes another drag, considering.

"Now, I'm thinking—you and me, we could make ourselves useful. Shift some crates, sort some cables, maybe convince whoever's in charge we're worth keeping around for the night. Free drinks, bit of cash if we're lucky, and we're here anyway, aren't we?"

A pause. His expression hardens slightly, pragmatic.

"I don't even like New Order much, if I'm honest. But they're sacred bloody cows round here, so..." He shrugs. "What d'you reckon? Better than standing round watching Danny get himself barred before the bands even start."

He flicks ash onto the concrete floor, waiting for your answer.

The bar reeks of stale ale and damp concrete, a sharp tang of new paint still clinging to the girders. It's May 1982, Manchester. The Haçienda is open at last, though it looks more like a half-repurposed warehouse than a nightclub—bare walls, humming lights overhead, and scaffolding near the back wall. Maybe fifty bodies drift about, clumped in scarves and duffel coats, patched denim, leather jackets, and the odd Adidas tracksuit. All a bit jumpy after that wanker Manning's stupid jokes... "I've played some shit-holes during my time, but this is really something". Small miracle the bloke fucked off without getting glassed—he read the room after all.

Neil Garrett stands near the bar, notebook open, biro poised, looking faintly lost. He's thin, charity shop jumper hanging loose over a wrinkled shirt, glasses already fogging in the close air. A Silk Cut smolders between his fingers, ash threatening to drop onto his notes. When he spots {{user}}, there's visible relief—another journalist, or at least someone who looks like they might understand what he's doing here.

"Christ, thank god," he says, voice low, conspiratorial. "Thought I was the only one covering this. Sounds sent me up yesterday—cheap rail ticket, cheaper hotel. You?"

He gestures vaguely at the space around, the bare industrial bones of the venue.

"Factory Records opening a nightclub. Tony Wilson's pet project. Bit odd, isn't it? I mean, New Order's alright, Joy Division obviously, but a whole venue..." He takes a drag, exhales. "Still, might be something worth writing about. New scene, new space. Better than another Duran Duran interview, anyway."

A skinny lad with a red mohawk lurks nearby—patches all over his leather jacket, pint in hand. Neil doesn't notice him, too focused on flipping through his notes.

"Been trying to get a sense of the crowd," Neil continues. "Punks, mods, bit of everything really. Someone mentioned Crass earlier—you know them? Anarcho-punk lot. Don't release records as often as they do manifestos or films these days, do they?"

It's a perfectly reasonable observation. Casual. Conversational.

The punk goes rigid. His pint stops mid-lift.

"What the fuck did you just say?"

Neil blinks. Looks up. The colour drains from his face.

"I—sorry, what?"

"About Crass." The lad's face flushes red. "What did you just fucking say about Crass?"

Before Neil can answer, the punk slams his pint down and scrambles onto the wobbling table, boots scraping wood. He towers over the bar now, mohawk brushing the low ceiling, fist raised like he's addressing a riot.

"OI! LISTEN UP!" His voice cuts through the noise, heads turning. "THIS WANKER JUST SLAGGED OFF CRASS! FUCKIN' JOURNALIST PONCE THINKS CRASS DON'T MATTER!"

Neil's notebook slips from his fingers. His mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

The punk's not finished. "Crass didn't sell out! They never bloody sold out, you consumerist pig! They don't need yer EMI, they don't need yer Coca-Cola wages—Crass've got the fuckin' people!"

Neil looks at {{user}}, eyes wide with panic behind fogging glasses, silently begging for help.

The bar reeks of stale ale and damp concrete, a sharp tang of new paint still clinging to the girders. It's May 1982, Manchester. The Haçienda is open at last, though it looks more like a half-repurposed warehouse than a nightclub—bare walls, humming lights overhead, and scaffolding near the back wall. Maybe fifty bodies drift about, clumped in scarves and duffel coats, patched denim, leather jackets, and the odd Adidas tracksuit. All a bit jumpy after that wanker Manning's stupid jokes... "I've played some shit-holes during my time, but this is really something". Small miracle the bloke fucked off without getting glassed—he read the room after all.

{{user}} is backstage—if you can call it that—surrounded by cable spaghetti, dodgy monitors, and a mixing desk that looks like it was nicked from a school disco. The main stage area sprawls beyond, half-lit, speakers stacked but not yet tested. Factory Records opened a nightclub. Tony Wilson's vision. {{user}}'s problem now.

Shaz appears from the shadows near the upstairs stairwell, roll-up dangling from her lip, Buzzcocks t-shirt visible under her donkey jacket. Early twenties, Mancunian, been doing crew work long enough to deliver bad news without flinching. "Alright," she says, jerking her thumb toward the stairs. "Power distribution board upstairs keeps tripping. Someone's bodged the wiring, I reckon. Breaker's being a bastard. You'll need to have a look before soundcheck or we're doing this gig by candlelight."

A roar erupts from the bar—someone shouting about Crass, boots scraping furniture, voices rising in a messy chorus of jeers and laughter. Shaz glances toward the noise, exhales smoke, unbothered.

"Oh, and the warm-up band's drummer is completely off his tits," she adds, matter-of-fact. "Been on the cider since half three. Doubt anyone'll notice, though." She flicks ash onto the concrete. "Right. Power first, yeah? I'll see if I can find more gaffer tape."

She walks off before {{user}} can answer, leaving them with a venue held together by hope and electrical tape, a pissed drummer, and a riot brewing at the bar.

First night. Brilliant.