Last night I played some songs by myself at Asylum on Rathbone Place. Asylum isn’t a hospital specializing in the treatment of persons with mental illness, but rather a small club underneath a newsagent in Fitzrovia, that area of town just north of Oxford Street and west of Tottenham Court Road. The evening was compered by a man with no teeth and a lab coat who referred to himself as Dr Plasma. I think his real name was Paul. Paul Plasma, perhaps, who knows.

It’s a cute little venue that I remember going to once before to see some stand up comedy. The stage is tiny, and it creaked under the weight of Alexander’s Festival Hall, who last night consisted of a duo: foppish genius singer and hirsute double bass player. I then bestrode the stage like a colussus, and marvelled at the backdrop behind me. “What a beautiful, beautiful night,” I said, a joke stolen wholesale from Peter Kay. “I’ve never seen Barrow-in-Furness look quite so glorious.”

To create low expectations I introduced myself as a fat bloke playing power ballads, which is pretty much what it was. The audience seemed to appreciate my efforts, even when I loudly berated them for chatting constantly. In fact, I think that was their favourite bit. I rounded off with a cover version of a well-known 80s hit, which I had worked out earlier that afternoon; it earned me a free shot of tequila from the man behind the bar, who plays bass with Roots Manuva. Roots Manuva’s real name is Rodney.

Scritti Politti, by the way, travel to Manchester next Tuesday to play live on Mark Radcliffe’s show on Radio 2 at 10.30pm or so.