The film show is explicitly designed to get 'em going. Right and left hand screens run out-of-synch images of pop eroticism; bananas unpeel, naked kneeling girls dissolve into numerals, an obscenely red, rough, tongue licks incessantly round and round gloss-red lips, the shapes and symbols of S-E-X are displayed with dogged determination. Cabaret time, alright. Dry hump city.

"Don't worry," says curly-topped Richard Ogden, the publicist who's steering the little jaunt, "this is what you do. See?"

His body suddenly droops in a neanderthal slump, his head twitches back and forth like a crazed, disjointed robot, his shoulder heaves in some vague relation to the melody.

"See?" He snaps upright with a cheery grin. "S'easy. And when a guitar solo comes up, this is what you do."

Slumping dramatically, he picks at an invisible guitar with spasmodic jerks and knee shakes.

Could such things be?

Yup, they could. Look about, and as far as the eye can see, the cream of Germany's youth (or at least the ones with a fiver to spare for the ticket) are twitching, plucking and nodding with the furious abandon of acolytes at some shrouded shrine of dark mysteries.

The reason why they're all going apeshit is because with a dramatic flourish THE SWEET are onstage, with their glorious motto 'WINKING WILL MAKE YOU GO BLIND' still emblazoned on all our minds. Well mine, anyway.

What in goodness do they make of all these encitements to depravity? Especially couched in English locker-room argot?

Lots and lots, it would seem.

I'm checking out this nine-year old girl next to me, niftily turned out in a matching denim waistcoat and well-cut little jeans. She's sitting on an equipment case next to me, giggling with her pal. Something her friend whispers makes her laugh out loud. She checks herself, and quickly crosses herself, eyes dropped demurely. A split second later she's standing in front of me, expertly twitching her hips and flouncing her hair from behind, in lusciously simulated passion.

She's only the first to move. The Sweet definitely do not play body music (my favourite kind), but they do genuinely sweat it, sending waves of hard-working energy out to the scattered audience in their 'Sweet' T-shirts, 'Sweet' shoulderbags.

I mean, with all that EFFORT aimed straight at your solar plexus, you've got to do something, haven't you? Otherwise you're not even trying, I mean to say.

Suzy Watson-Taylor and I look grimly at each other. With a determination that should make the National Union of Journalists proud, we pick our way through the writhing youngsters to the side of the stage, to a clear patch of ground. Amid the flying shreds of Pop magazine eddying round our ankles, we gingerly twitch our necks.

We're gonna get it on.

The Sweet's dressing room, Sportshalle, Cologne, Avant-gig...

"RIGHT, I'm ready for battle." Sweet vocalist, front man, and token blondhair, Brian Connolly, is cheery. He's about to doff his regulation patched denims for his regulation satin tight, tight trousers – not in my presence, I hasten to assure you.

"Off with the jewellery."

Off come the chunky gold rings, the expensive no-numeral watch, the strange gold bracelet with the birth sign (Libra I think) ("I bought this 'cos they told me gold was better than keeping the money. Cost me (insert astronomical sounding sum with 4 or 5 noughts.)" That's good, Brian. If times get rough you can always flog it. "No (shocked) I'd never do that. I'll leave it to me kids. Or somebody.")

"Spot the stripper!" yells out drummer Mick Tucker breezily from across the room. It was an omen of the deadly catchphrase that was to haunt the next three days.

The Sweet's Dressing Room, Sportshalle, Cologne. Apres-gig...

"WADDYA MEAN you had a good bop?" Brian Connolly's not tall, but he's suddenly grown about ten inches. His eyes, normally slightly glazed and red, shoot steely blue.

"You meantasay you were DANCING while we were up there sweating our bloody BALLS off!"

What can I say? I meant it as a compliment, and I've committed the unpardonable crime of bopping. Obviously a major faux pas. Desperately I say, "Well, it was just meant to show appreciation of the music, y'see...it makes you feel good so you want to dance to it."

Suspiciously, Brian growls, "Don't know what you mean. Music doesn't make me wanna dance. Funk makes me want to play." Aha, but that's because you're a musician while I am but a humble scribe, you honour. If I could play, maybe it would make me want to play too.

"Oh. I see." Brian is obviously thinking. Lines furrow his brow.

"You mean that you're dancing to express what you feel about the music?"

Well, that is the general idea. Yes.

"Oh. Well, in that case it's alright. We're in agreement."

Jovially, he pats me on the shoulder and walks away.

The lobby of the Intercontinental Hotel, Cologne. Apres-gig...

"TWO BIRDS went for 'im, and I'm afraid it 'ad to be a bit of that." It's a member of the Sweet's entourage expounding to a sympathetically nodding colleague. They're both looking in the direction of an emphatic German madechen who looks about 14. She's causing some kind of rumpus over at the desk, insisting that she's staying with a friend in the hotel, lunging at the phone. This, apparently, is the Fan Who Came Too Close. Having the dubious privilege of being the last fan to break Brian Connolly's back, she's now making a vain attempt to entrench her position.

"Yeah, 'cos in Denmark all my fuckin' forehead was scratched open..."

"Yeah," agrees his mate solemnly, "he belted her one."

They all gaze solemnly at the Fan, who's vigorous as ever.

"She's not complaining," they all agree. "She's just trying to bullshit."

I'm feeling faintly relieved, patting myself on the back that Connolly and I wound up in agreement. Plastic surgery ain't that easy to get on the N.H.S.

The Europa Bar, apres-gig. Later.

THE BAND are taciturn, subdued, knocking back the booze with an easy, regular elbow motion that confirmed what one of the guys had said to me earlier – "We're not a drugs band." Too right, sailor.

All of a sudden some sixth sense warns me that Andy Scott, the dark guitarist who looks just like Mick Tucker, drummer, wants to talk. Seize the moment, I say grimly to myself, and squeeze in between Suzy W-T and Scott.

Andy talks. At length. He's in the twilight zone of exhaustion and post-gig (equates with post-natal) depression. He wants to talk. He does.

"The fans on the road here, it's not like in England. (imitates:) 'Ooh, in 'ee lovely, look at 'im'. I'm not against that, I love playing in England, but you can see what we're up against. We've still got a few younger ones there.

"But in Germany, that's like our audience and that is virtually the same audience as in America, the majority of them are 16-20. Now obviously we want to appeal to the 14's and 15's, but that majority is 16, and perhaps 21. By the time you get to 16 you must be thinkin', you've got to know what you like..."

He looks enquiringly at me.

The dressing room, Sportshalle, Cologne. Apres-gig...

BRIAN's turning on me menacingly. "I like to make journalists feel uncomfortable. Why are you here?"

The Europa Bar, apres-gig. Later.

ANDY SCOTT (talking about rock press reaction to the Sweet's albums):

"Like we should be able to talk to people like from the music papers when ever we fancy, not 'cos there's a product to try and push...I don't see that side of the business.

"The band has put itself out too much in the past to try and help people and got shit on, so no more are we putting ourselves out. If it 'appens it 'appens. It 'appened in America that way. There was no overkill publicity. 'Ballroom Blitz' took three months to get in the charts, and when it got there it was there for a year. Desolation Boulevard has been in the charts for 45 weeks.

"It's really unfair to start putting us in a retrogressive mood to start with. And really, once that attitude's in your head, you do a press reception...we have press receptions where we accept gold discs and shuffle out of there as quickly as possible...we don't even want to talk to the press..."

You're not doing too badly at the moment.

"I don't mind talking to people as long as they're intelligent."

LIKE I SAID, the Sweet may be many things, but body music they ain't. Bob Marley eases himself down from a gig by smoking and dancing himself almost to oblivion, and then whooosh!, over the edge.

The Sweet lock themselves in their dressing-room and fight.

Suzy, Dennis Morris the Rastaphotographer, Richard and myself are slumped outside the dressing-room, B-O-R-E-D. On the floor. I'm reading Suzy's historical novel. It's awful. The band are shouting. Half an hour later, they emerge, invigorated.

"Right, we're off then."

The Europa Bar, later...

ANDY SCOTT: "If you're not into the humour of the band...Like, people in the press are like let inside where other people wouldn't be. Like we've had people with us who've heard us arguing...but they've got to realise that that is under, like, the cloak of secrecy, when you hear a band doing that."

THE NIGHT has worn on, and all the adrenalin's ebbing away fast. It's about 4.00 a.m. I'm allowing myself one last bop on the deserted dance floor (the DJ's an exile from Notting Hill Gate. He likes reggae. The Germans don't) when a couple of girls hail me to a table. I walk over.

One's German, the other's English. The English one addresses me.

"Do you know them? The Sweet?"

I wouldn't say I actually knew them yet, but I am out here with them.

"What are you doing?" I've been sent out by SOUNDS to do a story on the band.

"Oh, a journalist?" Relieved, she smiles at her friend. "We're journalists too. Out here on a story. No, I can't tell you which one, it would spoil it. The story. Do you know which room number they're staying in?"

THE NEXT morning, a motley crew gather in the lobby. Everyone looks rather the worse for wear. Steve Priest hasn't made it downstairs yet. The rest of us crowd into the bus, and Brian and Andy shout at the driver. He really was a lousy driver, mind you.

Dennis almost decapitates himself trying to get relaxed, cruisin' shots, Suzy and I compare notes (she's here for a German paper). We arrive at the airport, disembark. I knock back black coffee while the 4-foot pink stuffed donkey, a gift from a fan, is weighed at the luggage desk. Mick strolls up, and shouts cheerfully, "Spot the donkey!" The two girls from last night sweep before us onto the plane.

A PLEASANT, refreshing day off has been enjoyed by all. Suzy slept, the band hung out, and I almost got arrested on the East Berlin border, trying to get a far-out interview with the support band, Mr. Big.

Dennis and I get lost and increasingly bad-tempered as we try and find the Sweet's hotel. Finally we make it and sink into the restaurant.

There the Sweet, who are nice blokes individually, sink into the kind of spiritual and intellectual morass that can surely only come when an all-male rock band is on the road. Even the civilising influence of Suzy and myself does little to restrain the barrack-room humour (HOW many times did it wrap round a lamp-post?) and hail of bread rolls. Decadent Berlin niteries ("even when she took her G-string off you could hardly tell, but...") are academically discussed. They forget to bring Suzy's order. I fall asleep at the end of the table.

THE LAST DAY before our return. I sleep all afternoon, Dennis toddles off to take pix, and Brian explains why he's decided not to buy a Rolls Royce when he already has a perfectly adequate Mercedes.

The gig goes down well that night. Pretty much the same set as before, but tighter. That night I notice gangs of little boys all kneeling in a circle on the floor, bent back from the waist, banging their heads against the floor beyond their feet.

There's a little apres-tour party at the swimming-pool in the hotel. We hustle past the crowds to the limo. Apparently after we leave the fans break down the plate glass doors to get at the dummies of the group.

The Party...

THE RECORD execs are determined to make it a night to remember, throwing girls in the pool and laughing uproariously. I slide into the water in my Marks and Spencers underwear, seeing as how nobody had told me about the athletic aspect.

Paddling furiously up and down the pool, I raise the ol' head above water for a split second, just long enough to hear Andy Scott yell, "Spot the bra and pants!" By this stage of the game a rapport has been established between the band and me and Suzy.

Steve Priest has split, he's not much of a party man. Andy and Mick Tucker are being very amiable and chatty, even Brian has a smile. They're all relieved the trip's over, I think, and they can head on back to the family and the homestead in the stockbroker belt. Andy tells me about his plans for a house extension. I wish I had more money. I leave when the Sweet enter into the party spirit and begin flinging fully-dressed girls into the pool.

Adieu to the Sweet.
The Airport, Berlin...

STEVE PRIEST finally shows up, and turns out to be a good bloke. I look around for the two girls I met in the bar, half expecting to see them. Apparently they've flown everywhere the band have flown, gone to all the gigs, sending notes of admiration backstage and harrassing the road crew, just to get to their idols. They never succeeded. That's showbiz. I recall a high spot of the Sweet's act – with a resounding clash of drums, Brian announces as the band follow with their immaculate back-up harmonies: "If we don't fuck you then someone else will."

Dennis is looking pleased that he won't be stared at in the street in a couple of hours – you'd think he was Brian Connolly or someone, the way heads turned in the street at the sight of his natty, natty dread-locks. He was virtually the only non-Aryan we saw in Deutschland. Brian is very chatty on the plane, turning round in his seat to discuss this and that and feed me cigarettes.

"I do like gold discs that I can put on the wall and stare at endlessly. They mean the world to me," Brian intones solemnly, with a twinkle in those once-steely blue eyes. Incidentally, judging from his eyes, he's in a lousy physical shape.

Richard Ogden (who's been a source of mirth all through the lowest points of the trip. They ought to write a song about me, Suzy, Richard and Dennis on this trip and call it, Someone saved my life tonight...) turns to me and whispers, "You know Brian's joking, don't you?" I think he was, actually.

Farewells at the airport in London. Dennis gets held up at customs for ages while they go through all his cameras suspiciously. Sometimes being a rasta has its disadvantages. Suzy drives us back into town with Toots blaring on the cassette.

The Sweet Story as told to me by Andy Scott

"I'VE BEEN in probably three bands who've come close to nearly breakin' through. I was in a band called the Elastic Band, which was like a well-known circuit band, all over England but never quite broke through. In time I reckon we might have done it...

"Then I backed the Scaffold for a long time with Andy Roberts and a few other people. Then I was in a band called Mayfield's Mule which had a record which got into the Top 50, you know, EMI spent a lot of money...The band was too into the wrong kind of things, the dope counted more than the music and I couldn't handle that.

"I'd been with so many heavy-type bands I just went looking for refreshment, and I met Sweet. I'd heard a couple of their earlier records and I thought, 'I don't know if my head will let me handle this. Just from the record angle.

"But when I got to rehearsal, Brian wasn't there, only Stevie and me, and we just started blowing and I realised straightaway that you shouldn't take things at their face value. I was no better a player than Mick and Steve and vice versa, we all had something going for us, we all seemed to fit.

"It was like a breath of fresh air for all of us. We were all into the same kind of music, and I played them a couple of things I'd written and they just sort of fell into it straightaway, which was great.

"I remember the first gig, I knew we were winning, at one of those cloth cap clubs in Manchester, we were taken off after half an hour because we were too loud.

"At that time we were doing about a quarter original material, and a couple of Free numbers, a medley of Who tracks. Then I remember we all went up to Chinn and Chapman's office, and they played me a tape, like what I consider to be a demo tape of that 'today's sound', and I said yeah, fine. But I didn't think that that was necessarily a good direction, but I thought, it's a hit record.

"And I think we were all like over-anxious to at least see some bloody success in this business. And when it was suggested, a record company was found from somewhere and it was suggested that it be released. But none of us complained.

"We said, 'Well, if it doesn't go it doesn't go anyway and we can always try something new, something closer to where we really want to go.'

"And it was a session record."

And pauses. Continues.

"And I remember thinking, I've heard about things like this but I never thought we'd be involved with it."

"And so the record was a hit. And once you get yourself into that kind of mode it's...Like, another song was played to us and Mick and I DETESTED it. But we decided to give it a go and went in the studio and did it. And this time the backing track was laid, but we did a few things on the track.

"And it was starting to get to us there and then, Like, 'other people playing on my bloody record? No way!' That's why the B-side was such a contrast to their music, the A-side. It was our only outlet. And it was the first thing we demanded.

"By then we'd had two hit records. That's usually when all the problems start with a band, especially if you've got strong musical feelings like Mick and I had.

"We used to leave tracks like 'Blockbuster' so raw when we left the studio. But when we heard the final mix thing of it, it'd been neatened up, and instead of being something raw, it became, you know...

"After 'Ballroom Blitz' I thought, you know, that's it, we're not going in the studio with nobody else, we'll get it together ourselves. When they mixed it and fed that tape of some kids chanting in, I couldn't 'andle that. It became a contrived thing in the end. We had musical arrangements control, but none on the final product or how it was presented.

"In the end we went in with Phil Wainman and said, 'Alright, that's it, let's get an album together'. And we did Sweet Fanny Adams. But we were still a little bit frightened to go the whole hog.

"There are parts of that album which were a bit contrived, had to be. With Desolation Boulevard we tried to go for a wide-type feel to the album within the studio framework. You wouldn't believe how screwed up the guitar sound was, it was like coming out of a little hole in the corner of the speaker, and I was disgusted. RCA grabbed it and pressed a hundred thousand before we knew where we were. And that was it. The straw that broke the camel's back.

"We went into the studio to make music, to be bastardised."

After that point, the Sweet started looking after their own. 'Fox On The Run' followed, their first non-Chinnichap single, and hit. Now they're on their own, the lads who Andy described to me as "probably one of the straightest rock 'n' roll bands around."

Like Ogden told me before we left, the Sweet are big in Germany.

London Airport

MICK TUCKER comes up to me. "When's your article coming out?" Coupla weeks I guess, Mick. "Well, I'm gonna read it, and if it's nasty. I'm gonna get you!" With a light laugh, he heads on home.