This, you probably know: Send More Paramedics like zombies and gore, so much so that onstage the Leeds quartet dress to depress, faces bleached and mouths bloody. They twitch and jerk, flail limbs left ‘n’ right, and talk much of brain-munching and midnight snacking on the young and the hopeless. Mohawked front‘man’ B’Hellmouth – probably not the name on his library card – keeps proceedings flowing like so many severed veins with gargled quips through gritted teeth, his inane jabbering balanced by black-hearted vocal hugs for all and sundry that made the night – and the tour alongside fellow thrashers The Nothing – possible. Underneath all the decaying flesh and dead centre of the rotten grey matter, one suspects that this guy is, y’know, alright. 'Til he bites your ear off.

This, you might’ve missed: While it possesses all the depth of Zombie Flesh Eaters’ so-called plot, the ‘Medics’ live show is mouth-agape entertainment of the highest quality. Their kinetic punk-rocked-up metal – old school to the point of being deceased – mightn’t hold a torch to Testament or Slayer, but their ferocity is absolute and wouldn’t be diminished if they shed their now customary attire (kids have come dressed as their favourite member, really; many others have bloodied themselves up nicely). Plus, when a 'guy' with fiery eyes and an I’ll-chew-your-face-off smile smirks his way through the introduction to a song called ‘Zombie Versus Shark’, you know you’re on to a devilishly delicious winner. The assembled Halloween’s-come-early kids shout their lungs sore throughout, requesting whatever appropriately-titled thrashabout shuffles, back hunched, into their impressionable minds: ‘Necromancer’ is a widespread favourite, and the closing ‘Zombie Crew’ sparks a stage invasion on a scale previously unseen in such small confines. Even Mr ‘Mouth appears a little unsettled by the flood of fresh victims swarming his way, tossing the occasional body back from whence it came. Those he keeps close ultimately leave in a body bag.

Oh, and the whole experience is roughly eighteen times funnier than having to watch Army Of Darkness ever again. Next for these unholy bastards, gigantic shows alongside The Offspring: let’s hope the pop-punk'd pre-teens are as willing to offer forth their brains as these wretched old-enough-to-know-better souls.

Photograph by Kate Hoggett