I’ve just had a haircut. No radical change of look, you’ll be relieved to hear, although the temptation to style my rapidly receding head of hair into a Rod Stewart-style feather cut will burn deep within my soul for ever. But anyway, the point is that after I’ve had my hair cut, the barber always hands me a tissue. I’ve no idea what I’m supposed to do with it. My chin isn’t normally coated in dribble after 20 minutes in the barbers chair, and I don’t always have a cold, either. I tend to put it in my pocket. I don’t know if I’m committing some hideous faux pas by doing this, so if someone could tell me what I’m supposed to wipe up with it, I’d be much obliged.

I’m off to Amsterdam tomorrow morning, for the Scritti Politti gig at the Paradiso. The last time I was in Amsterdam was in 1997, when the Zuno Men toured Holland. It was a distinctly odd week. I remember our keyboard and euphonium player, Nelson Mandela Cook (yes, I know) smoking so much grass that he passed out in the passenger seat of the van on the way to Groningen. Dealing with the “sweet Mary Jane” is a problem that many British bands encounter, and something of a tradition has developed. Two hours before your stage time, get monged out of your bonce on skunk, and then gather in nervous huddles discussing how weird you’re feeling while the local promoter rolls his eyes and says “Stupid English bands, idiots, all of them.” You then take the stage and get through a 45 minute set in about 30 minutes because the drummer is pelting through all the songs at breakneck speed, sweating furiously. You then shamefacedly walk offstage while the promoter makes a mental note not to book you again.

In Groningen we had an altercation with a group of large drunk men in some kind of dormitory which we’d been told we could sleep in. They barged in at 4am, and noticing my then-wife sleeping in one of the bunks, started to become slightly out of control. Dave, the drummer, normally a very witty individual, shouted “don’t be an idiot all your life” to one of the men, and then we all got scared and sat in the lobby from 4.15am until about 8am when we plucked up the courage to go back in the dormitory fetch our bags. Rock, and indeed roll.

We then played in some small village in the middle of nowhere, and my friend Marcel Van Hoof turned up. He was once the bass player in 80s Peel favourites Buy Off The Bar, and was – and probably still is – a noted Dutch football correspondent – but at some point before this gig, without prior warning, he had decided to become a lady, and arrived in full lipstick’n'handbag mode. He introduced himself as Marcelle, and downed several pints of tasty Dutch beer with us all. It was, in the words of Noël Coward, a simply maaaaarvellous party. I hope Marcelle is in town tomorrow. I note from an internet search that she’s still doing her radio show, which I remember as being truly excellent, and suggest you catch, although the “listen again” feature doesn’t seem to be working at the moment. End of journal entry.