“Is that the AA? Our van has blown a tyre. We’re on the A12, under a bridge.” Of course, there are many bridges across the A12, carrying vehicles to and fro twixt towns and villages situated either side of the A12. We happened to be under this one, but we didn’t know that at the time, so while we waited for the AA to check under every bridge east of Ipswich, we sat under said bridge for a carefully posed Scritti Politti panoramic photo. Technology is so advanced these days that even the person taking the photo can appear in it. No timers, no countdown. Soon you’ll be able to take pictures of people that aren’t even there.

L-R: Green, Alyssa, Dave, Mick, Dicky, Ralph, me, Andy.

Green found a long stick in the nearby undergrowth, and we took it in turns to amuse ourselves using it. Dave chose to poke people in the ear with it from a vast distance. Ralph used it to scratch rude words on the underside of the bridge – “Uh… How do you spell bummer? Is it one m, or two?” – while Green stood atop the bridge, wielding it like some kind of medieval staff, while saying “I call a meeting of the council of elders, or, er, something.”

Back in the van, we leafed through the local paper for Framley Examiner-type ludicrousness. The finest example was in the Personal Announcements section, where the In Memoriam column carried the following:

Loving memories of my dad Charlie on his birthday, July 13

Nice times we remember
Thoughts of you are ever close
A gardener and decorator
With your skilful handwriting

Which, I’m ashamed to say, is still making me laugh even now.

Riding around in vans over long distances does breed a certain ridiculousness. Long, bored silences will be punctuated with gentle humour, which will in turn provoke disproportionately hysterical mirth. “I’ve always wanted to do a cover of Life On Mars,” piped up a voice at the back of the van, after several minutes of snoozing, “but changing it to: It’s a godawful small affair / to the mouse with the girly hair. And then just finishing the song there.”

We reached the Latitude festival eventually, and had a quick look around the myriad tents and pie stalls before unloading all the gear and putting it on risers on wheels, so each band member’s stuff could be rolled out to its correct position on stage when the time came. The time did indeed come, as it generally does, and out the risers came, on wheels. It would have been good if we’d all been standing on them as they were wheeled out, or indeed been wheeled out seperately on roller skates. Maybe next time. We then played a slightly shortened hour-long set, and packed everything away again, before driving to a soulless hotel near Ipswich which is set amid a delightful rolling landscape of car showrooms and branches of Burger King.

In the morning, we drove into Ipswich and stopped at the railway station to bid farewell to any band members who could no longer stand driving around in a van trying to guess what the crops in the adjoining fields are. “Now, do you think that’s cabbage? Or perhaps kale?” Outside the station were a dozen girls in pink sombreros, at the start of some kind of hen-night celebration. They each had custom-made t-shirts, saying “Racy Ruth” or “Krazy Kate”, but one girl had written on hers “Fitti Latitti”. I got out of the van, wearing a Scritti Politti t-shirt, and looked at Fitti Latitti. “Does that really say Fitti Latitti?” asked Green. Yes, we confirmed. We all stood there, Scritti Politti, looking at Fitti Latitti. Fitti Lattiti failed to look back. “Green, you should really have your photograph taken with her,” suggested someone. Probably rightly, he couldn’t bring himself to do so. But I did manage to strategically position myself so that Alyssa could take a photograph of me with Fitti Latitti, without her knowing. Alyssa then tried to Bluetooth the photo to me so I could put it on the blog, but it was 400k and was taking ages, so we gave up, which isn’t much of a punchline, is it, but then again I don’t get paid for writing this nonsense, do I.