JUST had a wonderful week of gigs in four previously unvisited towns with piers.  I don’t actually collect piers — ie wander round them in an anorak with a pier-spotting book, taking down the grid reference, date I visited and amount of seagull poo deposited on my head — but, as I’m a coastal-dweller, they have a special place in my heart and I would be very unhappy with a pierless existence. 

I especially like them in winter when they are in hibernation. Not totally closed, but with most of their touristy bits freezing and off-limits, frequented mainly by bored teenagers, bickering elderly couples and sea anglers like myself who dream of the peace of the cod-which-passeth-all-understanding and actually catch vast quantities of three bearded rockling — strange beasts which resemble cold, slimy, wriggly, floppy goats’ willies. (Imagination, not empirical experience, invoked here, I hasten to add).

I started in Southsea on Valentine’s Day, fairly close to home but still a first time for a quick look at their South Parade Pier, which was basically shut, apart from a deserted kebab hut and fish restaurant. My gig was organised by the two poets in residence at Portsmouth FC and, as someone who has had the same role at Brighton, both officially and unofficially, I was very happy to celebrate my ecumenical approach to our regional football clubs: