End of an era?

It was culturally important however, albeit in the strangest possible kind of way. Mr Smith's was the initial Mecca - ha ha' - of The Hit Man and Her. This roving television show brought the artless hoards of the north west nightclubs directly into early morning living rooms. It was early reality television and quite impossible to ignore.

The Hit Man - Pete Waterman - was accompanied on stage by Herbeing Michaela Strachan who, these days, prefers cycling across Dartmoor in her role as reporter on the sweet warming Countryfile, which I also never miss. But The Hit Man and Her was never less than compelling, displaying, as it so clearly did, some of the worst dressed and most rhythm devoid dancers ever to chance their luck and opt for shot of completely pointless fame. A cringe-fest indeed and always difficult for the presenters to fail to shine brightly amid this irksome mass lack of talent.

With respect to Pete Waterman (nobody earns more gold discs than The Beatles without owning both talent and tenacity), I can't recall liking one single release from the Stock, Aitken and Waterman stable. Even Bananarama, often claimed as a SAW product, seemed to lose their beautiful naivet when in SAW hands. Preferred them before SAW and Kylie after SAW.

Indeed, the only release from the vast SAW canon that even caught a moment's attention was a dance number from D.O.S.E which, somewhat bizarrely, included the vocal talents of Mark E. Smith. The song was called Plug Myself In (it was mesmerising to see Smith in the studio, literally hoisting up the appeal of a mundane dance backing by adding that time-honoured Salford drawl with the line, "I just can't seem toplug maaaaselff in."). Well, it made more impact on me than "I should be so lucky, lucky, lucky," that's for sure.

Curiously, Mark warmed to Pete Waterman and they had a number of amicable discussions down at Pete's studio, based within a converted church off Manchester's Deansgate. This, itself, was a curious set-up. The studio, managed for a while by the hedonistic John Barratt, one-time manager of Easterhouse, proved to be an intriguingly in-touch affair in which many of the movers and shakers of the 90s rave scene would encircle the in-house producer, Johnny Jay.

Perhaps, one wondered, Mr Waterman is more than just a mainstream vulture.

And so it proved. I met the mighty Pete within that establishment and, alongside Johnnys Jay and Barratt, we spent an afternoon watching Australian soaps and talking about all manner of eclectic music. I couldn't help but focus on Mr Waterman's extraordinary socks, which appeared to be see through nylon, as he spoke knowledgeably about his collection of early Fall albums - I am not making this up. That the man responsible for the irksome Rick Astley should be an aficionado of Mark E Smith proved hugely revelatory to me. That fact impressed me far more than that stack of worthless gold discs.

John Barratt had previously worked as, among other things, scriptwriter for The Hit Man and Her. Not that this was a task of Pinter-esque proportions. It was, indeed, cobbled together on the evening of each broadcast. John's wife, Rosemary, was the show's producer. Ro's previous credits included a stint as Radio One DJ, Old Grey Whistle Test presenter and Just Seventeen yearbook editor (known, back then, as Ro Newton). She was Stockport's latter-day Annie Nightingale and certainly laid down the template for the flood of latter-day Radio One girls, from Lisa I'Anson to Zoe Ball and Jo Whiley. Indeed, Zoe Ball even began her career under the guidance of Ro, on a television show from the Granada complex.

I visited just one Hit Man and Her evening and sat in on the production from start to finish. It was housed in a vast chrome-plated disco in Bury. At one point I sent my girlfriend into the ladies toilets and armed her with a dictaphone. I still own the resultant tape and, whenever I find myself feeling in need of a gentle comedic poke, I give it a spin.

"Eee Ahh tell yer Julie, that Tracey is gonna get a bloody slap if she starts neckin' wiv Kev agen...bloody fat slag!"

And so on. Little Britain, it seems, was alive and well and living in the heart of Bury in the early ninetiesand, of course, in the Warrington establishment known as Mr Smith's.