LEAFING around in some old files one sunny Saturday afternoon recently, I came across a yellowing newspaper cutting dating from the late 1960s.

It was a "pop" feature I'd written for the Rugby Advertiser back in the days when rock was young, waistlines had not yet hit the 30-inch mark, and hairlines hadn't begun to retreat in disorder.

My mugshot - very different from the one that adorns this page - was also present in all its glory. People and potential blackmailers would probably pay good money to see such a vision of unloveliness.

The subject of the piece was a young chap by the name of Mick Bradley, drummer with an up-an-coming band called Steamhammer.

I usually try to avoid hyperbole if possible, but must relent in the case of Mick Bradley. For this young chap from a Rugby back street was extraordinarily gifted. To state that he was rock's greatest drummer is simply not enough.

His energetic approach to the drum kit helped him to become the first drummer in rock history to use polyrhythmic drumming, a style commonly used by jazz musicians.

There is an album entitled Speech that proves my point for any music historians out there who might care to check.

Not long after this record was released in 1972, Mick Bradley died suddenly from undiagnosed leukaemia. He was aged 26.

Although he had been in the Fourth Year when I started at the grammar school, Mick Bradley was a kindly soul who desisted from the usual sport of beating up First Formers. The worst crime he committed was to shoot me with a water pistol. I think we can forgive him for that.

During his later school years, he took up the drums and started playing with local outfits. Clubs, pubs... the usual. Well, that's how it was then - but, sadly, the future's looking bleak for such harmless pursuits.

A few weeks ago, a Phillpott File had a good old rant about the Government's Licensing Bill and how it threatened live music. The column related how public performances in future would have to pay Prudence for the privilege.

There would be no exemptions. All premises where music was being created for the benefit of others would be subject to a licensing fee or risk prosecution. This applied to all places of entertainment, everything from churches to public houses.

In theory, playing a guitar in the corner of a room at a private house party would be outlawed - unless payment was made to the authorities. Life under New Labour - hey, isn't it wonderful?

Provoked by rumblings of dissent in papers such as the Evening News, the architect of the Licensing Bill - Kim Howells, Minister for Culture, Media and Sport - wrote to the local Press in an attempt at damage limitation.

This is typically New Labour. Make everyone's life a misery and then give a little back in order to appear benevolent. Here is an extract from what the mighty one wrote.

"I am pleased to be able to tell you and your readers that, having listened to all these concerns, we have decided that places of public worship across the country will not need a licence to put on regulated entertainment of any kind.

"The last thing I would want is to threaten the great tradition of church music that has been at the very heart of our nation's cultural life for hundreds of years.

"The Bill will be amended as soon as possible to ensure this doesn't happen."

The letter explained that the Government intended to exempt village and community halls "from fees associated with the provision of entertainment or entertainment facilities under the licensing regime".

The missive then gushed with several paragraphs of patronising guff about how religious institutions and music societies would now flourish.

Hang on a minute, Kim old chap. Let me get this right - so it's thanks to you that our folk culture is going to go from strength-to-strength, is it? Marvellous. Let us now fall to our knees in supplication.

Except there is a major problem. For I don't see any mention whatsoever regarding the section of this Bill that is causing increasing alarm among those who attend a different kind of church - those buildings where the prayer mats come with handles.

Pubs. Few would contest the role that the tavern, alehouse and good old local boozer has played in British culture down the centuries. Once, it was the blind fiddler playing for loose change. Then, when the piano became the dominant folk instrument, the traditional knees-up became a must for every Saturday night.

The advent of the jukebox and, latterly, karaoke may have reduced demand for homespun efforts, but not entirely. Just as television did not completely kill radio, neither did pre-recorded music signal the demise of the live performer.

A couple of weeks ago, I bumped into a landlord of my acquaintance who features live music in his pub. Every week, a folk club is held in the top room of his premises. From time to time, the musicians play in the bar for the benefit of the punters.

All good, harmless stuff you might say. Yet such activities are threatened by Howell's Bill. For publicans run a tight budget these days and the extra expense of a vastly more expensive music licence could place an intolerable burden on some landlords.

There will undoubtedly be licensees who will decide that they cannot afford the increased costs. The music will then be discontinued - and another nail hammered in the coffin of the folk process.

Do not delude yourself into thinking that it might actually be a good thing if noisy rock music went into decline. This Bill affects morris dancing, too.

It should also be remembered that the amateur music scene is a breeding ground for all sorts of artistic endeavour - folk music, theatre, mime and many other of the performing arts all owe much to the ordinary pub where nervous youngsters first expose their talents to public scrutiny.

The public house has long been vital to the political health of the nation. Who hasn't been caught up or heard a clash of views across tables or at the bar?

It's the same with entertainment. Many of today's top artists started off down the local, trying out their act on relations and neighbours. The British pub has always been the nursery class for the stars of tomorrow.

And it was in pubs that Mick Bradley took his first tentative steps towards global renown. Tragically, his full potential was cut short by a dreadful disease of which he was not aware until the weekend of his death.

He died 31 years ago this month. Had he lived, he'd be aged 57 now, and would undoubtedly be up there with the big names of entertainment. Journalists might be interviewing him and asking where he'd started out on the road to fame.

"Well, it was a Saturday night down the Holly Bush back in 1964," he might say. "I never knew back then that the band would hit the big time..."

I think it's time to finish this imaginary conversation. Rest assured that the threat to public entertainment is still very real.

And the best form of action may be to question your nearest MP and protest before it is too late - and yet another aspect of our lives is ruined by the politicians.