A Lazland Public Health Warning. This Prologue page contains intensely personal commentary. In fact, far more personal detail than I have ever written or spoken of in public.

The Journey to Fusion is not merely a commentary on an adult life but can hopefully provide a brief explanation of the impact Anxiety Disorder can have on the individual and those around him.

Even two months ago, I would never have contemplating publishing this narrative. I would have written it, as an exercise in catharsis, but never make it public, my being a quite old-fashioned English type. Such reserve is not healthy.

However, for those of you who have zero interest in such confessionals (and I absolutely get it why you do), skip to the bottom of the page for the roll call of luminaries I met, and then move onto the Fusion review.

The Journey to Fusion

In June 1983, The Boy joined The Royal Air Force, hoping to become a fully-fledged, lean, mean, fighting machine. In July 1983, halfway through the basic training, The Boy was being comforted at 01:00 by a comrade, shivering, unable to swallow, utterly petrified, thinking he was having a heart attack.

The Boy didn’t last long in RAF. He joined the Civil Service. The Boy became a trade union rep. The Boy played a lot of cricket. The Boy was the life and soul of the party, drinking ale at his local pubs until all hours every night, playing cards, dominoes, watching sport, you name it. The Boy would sink a minimum of six pints a night, smoked 20 a day, and got used to feeling like shit each morning. The Boy was a bit of a lad.

The Boy started travelling. The Boy attended his first union conference in 1986, Brighton. The Boy woke up on the second morning following a very late night unable to function, palpitations abounding, not able to attend the conference hall. The Boy put it down to a common or garden hangover.

The Boy would travel on the train but found that he was so afraid sometimes he had to get off at a station miles before his destination to have a calming smoke. Why?

The Cricket Boy was a captain on a Saturday and led at mid-on. He would get through a match quite happily before descending to the bar, pub, club for a session in a hard drinking culture. The Boy would play a friendly match on a Sunday, and found he couldn’t swallow whilst fielding, so to stop this strange phenomenon, would voluntarily take himself off to the boundary at deep fine leg, or long on to stop said medical issue. Why only on a Sunday, and not a Saturday? The Boy didn’t know. He knew it made no sense, especially the fact he would go through at least three packs of Wrigley’s to keep his mouth moist to swallow.

The Boy moved to Wales. He had got a promotion with work. The Boy found a pub, a damned good pub with the finest real ale he had ever tasted. The Boy had to travel to Bristol weekly for a face-to-face training course. The Boy became paranoid and petrified travelling through The Severn Tunnel between Newport & Bristol. The Boy would hide in the toilet with a bottle of water until the danger had gone away, hoping his colleagues didn’t notice. They had – they were just too polite to say anything.

The Boy met the loveliest lady on the planet. They started a family, and The Boy now started drinking at home more. Naturally, the thought of cutting down didn’t occur to The Boy. He passed his exams. A family was started, a mortgage obtained. All was good, except the swallowing problems, the palpitations, the head numbness, the heart racing, the daily urge to flee. The Boy did a reasonably good job of hiding this.

The Boy continued to attend conferences. The Boy simply couldn’t understand why he was a mental wreck before giving a speech. The Boy put it down to simple nerves.

The Boy increasingly found he did not cope with stress very well. The Boy only really felt normal after beer o’clock in the evening, when a pint, or five, would make things better.

The Boy’s two best friends in the world died, one as a direct result of his drinking, the other where it clearly didn’t help. The Boy loved them both. The Boy had a security incident at work which impacted upon his family. The Boy developed psoriasis as a result, and the feeling of dread became a familiar pattern of life. Except when The Boy had his pints in the evening.

The Boy got a promotion. The Boy’s employer closed local offices and centralised everything. The Boy had to travel by train and stay in hotels across the country to pay the mortgage. The Boy would always suffer from an incident on the train, or deep into the night or morning in the hotel. The Boy began to feel he might be losing his mind from the stress of it all.

The Boy went to a gig in Cardiff Bay. The Boy got talking to the lead singer before the gig at the bar and soon was as inebriated as his hero. The loveliest lady on the planet asked The Boy to not have any more to drink. The Boy stormed off before the end of the gig and somehow walked the length of Cardiff to the hotel, where he locked the loveliest lady on the planet out of the hotel room.

The couple moved to look after the in-laws fourteen years ago. The Boy put the familiar symptoms down to the stress of caring. The Boy would take the dog to the pub each evening. The Boy would have a couple more after dinner. It was the stress, you know. At least, that is what The Boy put the inevitable bad feeling the next day down to.

The Boy had to stay at home during Covid, publicly berating Fat Boy Johnson for curbing our liberties whilst partying, but secretly utterly relieved he didn’t have to travel any longer. It was becoming unbearable, even as near as Swansea. The Boy began to treat the train as an enemy. The Boy refused to travel post-Covid and obtained a working from home contract. In three years, The Boy only travelled once, to see his manager visiting Cardiff. The Boy spent fifteen minutes of that journey locked in the toilet, thinking he was dying. His friend and colleague Tony was very kind and didn’t say anything.

The Boy started to develop aches in his temple, which inevitably descended into a numb head, which invariably led to the thought that The Boy was having a stroke, had a brain tumour, or a combination of both. The Boy began to lose the ability to think rationally about his wellbeing. The loveliest lady on the planet thought it might be the beer. The Boy thought her right but could not possibly contemplate losing a lifelong pleasure. After all, the Boy was not, and is not, an alcoholic.

In December 2025, The Boy went on an Ale Club jaunt to Carmarthen. The Boy had a few. The following morning, The Boy was due to meet friends and colleagues in Swansea for Christmas drinkies. The Boy was dreading the journey, thinking of nothing else for days before. The Boy got on the train at the station. Five seconds later, the train manager was shouting at The Boy on the platform. “Are you getting on this train?”. No. The Boy couldn’t. He initially lied, both to friends and the loveliest lady on the planet. The train had not left owing to staffing issues, he said. He told the truth after getting the bus home. The loveliest lady on the planet wondered whether the session the day before had contributed? The Boy knew the truth. He ignored it, though, as he always had.

The Boy had booked a ticket for Fusion Festival in March 2026. The lineup was irresistible. The Boy began to wonder how on earth he was going to get there. The Boy knew he couldn’t face the train, his nemesis.

The Boy ran a quiz night at the pub. The Boy was subjected to complaints about the winning team cheating, the questions being too hard, this on top of perhaps the most intense twelve months of his professional career. The Boy had a few. The Boy got home very late.

The next morning, The Boy was in the kitchen. He had cleared up after brunch, and was reading his paper, listening to the radio whilst the loveliest lady on the planet was drying her hair after a shower. The Boy’s right temple began to throb. The Boy’s head went numb again, this time without any feeling whatsoever. The Boy ran out to the back patio for cold, fresh air. It didn’t help. The Boy felt dizzy. His heart was pounding. He was dying, of that, there was no doubt. The Boy staggered to her bedroom. She soothed him. She made him feel better after he demanded to be taken to the hospital. The Boy knew he had been on the verge of a complete mental breakdown, and it frightened him. The loveliest lady on the planet sat The Boy down. She told him some home truths in the most tender manner imaginable.

The Man listened. The Man loves his music, as did The Boy. The Man wanted to see some incredible bands. He wanted to accompany his wife by train in May to London for a special trip. He wanted to fly to Malta the week after with his family for a special holiday with the granddaughter. The Man stopped drinking ale. The Man had one glass of wine with his dinner, and nothing more. The man stopped drinking four, five, six pints a night with a whiskey noggin prior to beddy byes. At the age of 61, The Boy finally accepted his condition, what aggravated it, and grew up.

On 6th March 2026, The Man got on a National Express coach in Carmarthen, bound for Birmingham. He did not flinch. He did not stress or worry. He felt amazing throughout the entire journey, with only one slight tremor in the head, easily despatched in the manner he used to score boundaries back in the day. The Uber picked The Man up at Birmingham Coach Station, and took him to Stourport-on-Severn, with nil stress, discomfort, or aggravation. The Man felt as if he was the richest chap on earth.

The Man met his radio colleagues and online friends for the first time. The man enjoyed a whole weekend of music without one single panic attack. The headaches now lasted for no more than five seconds, and the head did not go numb, the anxiety staying well and truly in the background where it belonged. Always there, but not dominant.

The Man did not have to disappear to the toilet for anything other than a natural relieving of the bladder. The Man had a mere four small glasses of wine over the course of a weekend, despite seeing some altogether legendary drinking amongst his peers, and did not feel jealous, bitter, or anything other than fit, healthy, and so glad to be able to enjoy himself without feeling wretched. He also appreciated the loving support of those around him who knew why he had cut right down and acknowledged that even a “quiet couple of pints” was beyond him.

The Man is writing this calmly on the National Express coach back to Carmarthen. He is going to stop soon and watch a film, not to take his mind off a wretched journey, but because he wants to see it. He is looking forward to seeing the loveliest lady on the planet without having to lie that all went well. This time, he will mean it.

The Man knows that he will now enjoy the train journey to London. He will not cower during the trip through that bloody tunnel. The Man, for the first time ever, will be able to get on a plane without chemical assistance.

You see, beneath all the bombast, the faux exhilaration, confidence, bonhomie, the jokes, the sometimes extremely annoying behaviour lies a hotbed of anxiety, negative emotions, and a desire to shut all but the loveliest lady on the planet away from my life. The next time you are in a pub, and somebody dismisses panic/anxiety attacks as a figment of the imagination, as a skivers charter for benefits, and so on, refer them, please, to this article. I have worked all my adult life, and damned hard as well. Yes, you can live a life with anxiety issues, but, by God, at times, it can be a lonely, miserable, embarrassing existence. Imagine going to a gig or conference and being so scared of a large group of people and the noise that you stand right at the back next to the exit just so that you have the comfort of being able to leave at a time of your choosing when the symptoms manifest themselves. It is only now that The Man can face the issue and deal with it, slowly, surely, and with the support of a loving family and friends.

The Boy would not have contemplated writing this article. Never. Not in a million years. The Man still must think twice about it, but considers it better said and understood. The world has changed. Vulnerability is no longer seen as a sign of weakness, certainly amongst the people I choose to associate with.

It is a wonderful life. The Man knows that he will never be entirely rid of his anxiety. It is a lifelong problem, and akin to an addiction. But, in the same manner he gave up smoking and ale, The Man knows he can overcome the addiction. The Man knows the triggers and will cope with the loving support She gives him. The Man is, indeed, a lucky chap.

Festival Overview

As regular readers of mine know, I don’t take notes or photos during gigs, preferring to live in the moment, as it were. Therefore, the reviews on this and the next page are the immediate mental overview of a wonderful weekend.

Firstly, The Gang.

It was such a privilege and pleasure to meet The Progzilla Gang, all aside from Steve Petch for the first time in the flesh. I sat throughout with Paul Thompson & John Simms, whose lovely wife Jude had accompanied him to the hotel for the weekend. I will always remember the wonderful prog camaraderie of them both – they helped make this the most special weekend I have had in some time. I have embedded the group photo above. The camaraderie and sheer warmth of this group of people is something to truly treasure.

Clive Nolan was there, and we had a nice chat – hopefully, Glynis and I will be back at Mead Hall later in the year; Prog Magazine editor, Jerry Ewing, was on great form, a wonderful character; Leo Trimming, is a well-known reviewer and a thoroughly decent chap to boot – probably the finest example of Dad Dancing it is possible to witness!; Erno, is a Progzilla listening legend, what a lovely character he is, so full of knowledge and love for the genre; Colin Powell, A Multitude of One, such a talented musician; Hugh, who Glynis & I first met at Mead Hall; Tony Bayliss and Alan Pearson, both of whom were so kind about this website and the radio show; the exceptional musicians who went out of their way to socialise with the fans – The Emerald Dawn especially, a favourite band of mine, and such personable and friendly people; Béla Alabástrom and her fine husband following a recent bout of lovely exchanges around Magenta – Béla, absolutely yes to Comedy of Errors!; Bob Cheatham, a great chat in the hotel Monday morning – I hope to see you at Soundle one of these fine days; all you lovely listeners of my show and readers of this website who told a proud chap how much you enjoy both; to anyone I may have forgotten - my apologies, but I love you and please realise I was far too sober to remember you all.

Prior to going, I was dreading the sound at the venue, a civic hall, which online looked like one of those echoey places the BBC plonk a bunch of political anoraks in for Any Questions and Question Time. I needn’t have worried. The planning which goes into this festival is supreme. The sound was never anything less than crystal clear, the stage lighting as good as any major venue, the video shows pristine. Steve & Lou Gould put so much into this whole experience, and they deserve all the plaudits we can give them. To them, I salute a couple who gave a group of music fans an incredible amount of pleasure. Thank you!