RIP Captain Hotknives and tonight’s set

We lost Captain Hotknives today.

1970s – 2026 (or thereabouts – time’s fuzzy when you live properly)

And I’m not writing some tidy, respectful, church-hall obituary. Because Chris wasn’t tidy or respectable. He was funny as fuck, loud as fuck and gloriously unhinged in the best possible way.

His songs were ridiculous. Filthy. Silly. Complete bollox. Proper laugh-your-tits-off lyrics. The kind of stuff that makes you spit your drink out one minute… and then the next minute he’s absolutely shredding, and you’re stood there thinking how the fuck is this idiot actually this good?

Because under all the chaos, he had serious chops. Greasy rock’n’roll guitar. Sometimes banjo. Always tight as hell. Comedy and proper musicianship together – which hardly anyone can pull off without sounding naff. Chris just did it naturally.

He stayed with me before a gig at Kantina in Lancaster, 2022-ish. We went out picking mushrooms and came back with thousands of the bloody things. Standard day out with Chris.

Then before the gig he just necked hundreds like they were crisps. No hesitation. No ceremony. Just: down the hatch. Absolute maniac.

And then at the gig Paddy handed him the biggest shroom we could find – like a full-on cartoon toadstool monster – and Chris just looked at it, shrugged, scoffed the whole thing in one go… and the crowd went bananas. Rock’n’roll goblin behaviour.

And he still smashed the set – in fact best one I saw him do. Still funny as fuck. Still tight. Still electric.

Life wasn’t easy on him either. In and out of mental hospitals. Addiction chewing bits off him. Demons never far away. He lived right on the wire.

But he kept turning up. Plugging into whatever half-dead pub PA was available. No ego. No bullshit. No “artist” nonsense. Just “right then you lot” and bang – instant party. Muddy fields. Warm brew. Everyone dancing or standing there stunned. That’s a gift, that is.

I used to tell him “hot tongs are better than tot knives, mate.” He’d laugh and call me a twat and threaten to write a song about it. Which is exactly how it should be.

No myth. No legend crap. Just a funny, talented, slightly feral human making the world a bit brighter. And now there’s one less of those about. Which is a cunt.

So tonight – play something loud. Have a drink. Laugh at something stupid. Feels more appropriate than silence.

Cheers for the chaos, you brilliant, hilarious fucking nutter. Love ya, mate.