DESPITE all the horror in the world, it’s a beautiful day, and I’m sitting here planning my first tour of mainland Europe for three years which kicks off in June. It’s my 40th anniversary celebration, delayed by two years because of Covid (entirely outside our control) and completely changed because of Brexit (entirely within our control, now, apparently, because we’ve taken it back.)

Tell that to my band, with whom I’ve played for 27 years. They can’t perform with me any more, because the formerly simple, easy act of transporting a load of people, musical equipment and merch across the Channel has turned into a ridiculous, complicated, costly, bureaucratic nightmare. Easily dealt with by the likes of Roger Daltrey, with his army of accountants and fleet of trucks, but insurmountable for a band travelling in a transit van playing small gigs, as we have done happily since 1994. 

I’m very fortunate, since I have the option of performing solo. As a poet and songwriter I can get myself a (senior) rail pass, take my mandola and suitcase, head off — without merch — and do my gigs, which is what I’m doing.