In May 2012 I received a text from Chris asking me to come along to the Curry Club and have a drink or two. We are old friends who both come from Plymouth in Devon and we have a bit of history. In his published c.v. he tells you that he was one of the founder members of the acclaimed band The Drill, well I was the other one. Chris has asked me to share my recollections about a part of our lives before Adam etc, so to all you Drill fans, I have a tale to tell, sprinkled with the occasional spilt bean!

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Dave Wilson, Wil to my friends, and I am the person who picked up a Fender Precision bass guitar belonging to a certain Chris Constantinou, got out a Stanley knife and crudely carved his initials on it. Three reasons: he wanted to be able to recognise it again if lost or stolen, never ever be tempted to sell it, and we had probably had too much to drink!

The year is 1971, I have just become a teenager, a spotty youth, Doc Martens, Levi 501 button ups, Ben Sherman short sleeved shirt, red braces and close cropped hair, bopping away in the local youth club to the greatest band ever, the almighty Slade. How was I to know that before the decade had ended I would appear on a stage up north in Sheffield as the lead singer in a well rehearsed new wave act, with a good friend I had not yet met playing the bass guitar, supporting none other than, yep, Slade, and that we would carry on and do four tours with them, thirty-four dates across 1979 and 1980. I would probably have burst into tears and crapped myself at the very thought of it, I was still a boy and, as Noel says, all too much to take.

Fast forward to 1976, spots gone, I am now a handsome youth going through a hippy phase, working hard on my suntan in the never ending sunshine of that glorious year. This is when I first met Chris, introduced in a music pub called the Breakwater. Chris had just finished playing a set with Diz Watson and the Barrelhouse Shufflers, a traditional blues band. In those days he had a full beard and long hair and dressed a bit like one of his musical heroes, Ian Anderson of Jethro Tull, an Osama Bin Laden lookalike 35 years too soon (sorry mate, only pulling your plonker). We clicked and became good friends, a circle of good people with similar interests. We were young and free to do as we wished. If I had to write a mission statement for our attitude it would go something like this: priority number one, do as much drinking, fornication, general partying and having a good time as you possibly can, no other priorities. Chris had a large blue van which doubled as a work donkey for gigs and a party bus for our leisure, the back of that van saw a lot of action. I would often crash out in the spare room at his folks place, a welcoming house, and his mother knew how to feed hungry lads.

At this stage Chris was serious about carving out a career as a professional musician. He would up sticks and go over to Germany doing the rounds in the American bases playing country and western standards to pissed up rednecks. At one of those gigs a member of the audience was shot dead in front of the band. He was a journeyman musician serving an apprenticeship. He would get back to Plymouth, hook up with the boys and get other projects moving. What I am trying to get at is this, Chris has always been a driven person, he knows where he needs to be and makes things happen. In those days the only tool was the phone box, and Chris could not pass one without getting his little black book out. Once he has you on the end of a phone he is like a dog sniffing out a rat, he will not let up until he gets results. A good man to know and have on your side.

It is late 1977, about Christmas, Chris and I are hanging about in Plymouth becoming bored with it all, hands in pockets kicking stones around the car park. Amazing things are going on everywhere else, mainly in the Smoke. The Sex Pistols have stirred things up. I am in the kitchen at his parents place with Ian Dury and the Blockheads, New Boots and Panties blaring away, Chris looks at me and says, Wil, wanna start a band up and move to London. Course I bloody well do, says I. The adventure had begun.

January 1978 and onwards, Ilford, Essex, kipping down on Mike Bienvenu's floor, a keyboard player with good pedigree who has come on board, and we are doing the nitty gritty of recruiting others. Naturally we are skint all the time, rehearsal room fees and ads in Melody Maker. Chris stays with relatives up in Bounds Green and drives down to Ilford where we do the writing. I have been promoted to wordsmith, in charge of the lyrics. Chris takes an early morning office cleaning job to pay the bills, bless him, it must have been awful as I know he is terrified of manual work (sorry mate, pulling it again). In the next few months we get things together. Tom Toomey comes on board, a brilliant lead guitarist, and since Drill, Tom has worked with an incredible array of artistes.

Got to say something about Mick, a man with a wicked sense of humour. He joined the Royal Marines as a bandsman aged 14 and got kicked out for refusing to pick up a rifle, he had not realised the job description included killing our alleged enemies. Mick was asked to play the organ at the local Anglican church, and as the congregation knelt to receive, eyes shut, mouths open, the tones of Je t'aime echoed around the building. He was not asked again.

We were using a rehearsal room in Sydenham called Silversound. We always seemed to get in just after a band called Squeeze, and the place was usually filthy, covered in fast food detritus. I even found a rather scabby porn mag in the leavings. We often saw their van pulling away with a horrified looking blow up doll stuck to the rear window, the lady in question apparently trying to escape, dutty little buggers. Maybe you lot out there should agitate on the web and demand to see The Drill on Jools Holland, then Chris can return some lost property to its rightful owner on national telly. Go on, I dare you.

Chris has been busy in the phone box and we have our first gig booked in Southend, still skint, and hiring vans and PA systems is not cheap. A timely miracle occurs, I get a tax rebate, 950 quid, and I am off to the Post Office. I am still counting the money when Chris swoops down and trousers the lot for expenses, though in a moment of weakness he lets me hang on to a fiver. While I am deciding between chips or beer he borrows it back for petrol. He never paid me back.

Southend is looming, we recruit a drummer, bring him up to speed, and before you know it we are in the van and off. All the other guys are seasoned performers but I am heading into virgin territory, never been on a stage in my life, bricking it all the way there. I hear Chris has been talking to the press and that allegations have been made about my behaviour that night. As far as I am concerned everything went to plan, except for the massive fight I had with a section of the audience. The band played on and nobody was hurt apart from the gentleman I twatted. I reckon it was all Mr Constantinou's fault. Imagine being me, frightened out of my skin, buzzing on adrenaline, and seconds before stepping into the limelight someone whispers break a leg into my shell-like. I was only following orders. The drummer disappears over the horizon, thinks we are a bunch of nutters.

With that first gig under the Lonsdale belt the ball had begun to roll. We recruited a drummer called Ray Weston and, with Chris stoking the momentum from the phone box, we were soon playing regularly. Through Tom's contacts we came into some presentable demo tapes via a goodhearted man called Johnny Wakelin, who sang the hit single Muhammad Ali. He paid for some recording and helped us along. By the end of the year we had played all over, the Rock Garden, the Nashville, the Music Machine, and come to the attention of a fine gentleman called Martin Wyatt who offered a publishing deal and negotiated our first recording deal with Ebony Records. Not bad for the first year, even though I say so myself.

We spent the first six months of 1979 putting the stage act together, rehearsing, tightening up, writing, and doing more mainstream supports to acts like Inner Circle at the Marquee and the Birmingham Odeon. Little mini tours out and about to stay in match condition. We ended up signing to RCA Records, and they were contract bound to pay our bills. Oh happy days.

Talking of the stage act, I must share this one. Chris has mighty powers of persuasion, honed to perfection in the phone box. For reasons of artistic realism he thought it would be a brilliant idea if I appeared to perform a sex act on him during one number. Reluctantly I agreed, and yes, not proud of it, I gave him a nosh on stage, but only a pretend one. We were never invited to perform on the Old Grey Whistle Test, however John Peel found us suitable for his radio listeners.

It was late in the year, around November, when Chris took the call from Martin asking us to nip up north and step in for Def Leppard, who had cancelled. This, my friends, is when my dream came true. On stage supporting Slade, yippee. They were impressed and asked us back for more. We linked up with their manager Chas Chandler, the bass player from the Animals and the man who discovered Jimi Hendrix, and did a bit of recording with him as our producer.

The ball rolled on, loads of work with Slade and others, good times and bad. I vividly recall a very shitty fortnight. We turned up in Sunderland at the Polytechnic, the gig was cancelled and all our gear was nicked from the van while we sat having a drink in the bar. John Lennon was shot a few days later and our next gig was at Eric's Club in Mathew Street, Liverpool, right opposite the site of the original Cavern. We made it with new equipment and saw the carpet of flowers laid down to honour the great man. The people of Liverpool did him proud, and I must admit it brought a tear to my eye.

Then we were offered the big one, a European tour supporting the Ramones. We trotted off to the rehearsal rooms to prepare for the breakthrough, a real chance to get ourselves known, and we were up for it. Working with Slade had taught us the art of stagecraft, they were the masters and we were willing students. I am sure Chris will agree it fed the way he delivers on stage today and gave him the edge when he joined the Ants. As for the Ramones, we were champing at the bit, and then, with ten days to go, the tour was cancelled. Talk about a dagger through the soul. That was when the rot set in for me, my heart was no longer in it, and so my time to go had come.

I would like to say it is an honour and a pleasure to have played a part in their lives, I remain their good friend, and I am sorry I went off in a huff and left them and the others in the lurch. The story is not over, the band is back together and our new album is out. Bend your ears around a blast from the past. Thanks for taking the time. Wil.

P.S. Oi you, Constantinou, you owe me five quid plus 48 years compound interest. Non payment will result in loads of beans being spilt.