We woke up at Holyhead ferry terminal to discover that our ferry wasn’t cancelled, and we would indeed be playing in Dublin that night, which was a relief, as I’d just got a text from Jenny to say that she was about to get on a Ryan Air flight to meet me out there. I pulled on some stinking clothes, then removed them, found my own stinking clothes, pulled them on, and left the bus to be hit in the face by a north or north east 5 to 7 increasing 6 to gale 8, occasionally severe gale 9, rough or very rough, occasional rain, moderate or good. I took refuge in the ferry/train terminal building and found Andy clutching a blue towel, looking miserable. “There’s a shop on platform 1 selling tea and apples,” he informed me. We were all rambling incoherently by this point in the tour, but the idea of a shop selling only tea and apples intrigued me. I found the shop; yes, it sold tea and apples, but also coffee, rolls, sandwiches, cakes and much else besides. “Did you find it?” asked Andy, later. “No,” I said, “the shop I found sold chewing gum and water.”

I wandered over the bridge into Holyhead town centre. The word “bleak” doesn’t fully encapsulate quite how bleak it was. I found a shop selling handbags called “Hollywood Boulevard”, about a dozen thrift shops, and a man walking up and down saying “f*cking wind”. Another man stood staring into a butchers window. I walked the length of the high street, came back again, and he was still standing there, staring. Decisions, decisions.

Back at the ferry terminal, the bus had gone. I rang Paul, our tour manager. “Where are you?” I asked. “Oh, are you not on the bus?” “No.” Ah, well, we’ve checked in and gone through to the next, er, area.” I negotiated with a pale, simpering boy at check-in, but he wouldn’t let me through. “I’ll have to call a manager,” he said. He called a manager, the manager called the port authority, the port authority called 10 Downing Street, who consulted the Queen, and 15 minutes later a van with flashing lights rolled up to transport me through the no-man’s land of Stena’s check-in area and onto the bus. “You on that bus?” the driver asked. “Yep,” I replied, sullenly. “What band is it?” “It’s, er, Scritti Politti,” I said. “Scritti what?” “Politti.” “Politti? Hahahaha! Hahahah! Scritti what? Politti? Hahahaha! Hahaha!” He was still laughing when I got out of the van, and onto the safety of the bus. “Ah, Rhodri, where have you been? Don’t worry, you’re safe, you’re with mummy now.”

The much-feared crossing passed without incident, unless you call fish and chips an incident, and I certainly don’t. We eventually rolled up at Whelan’s in Dublin at 7pm, giving us precisely one hour to set up, a procedure that normally takes around three. Amazingly, we managed it, and we retired to the bar for a single pint of Guinness before being ushered back onstage, this time to actually play some music. A slightly shortened set, a noisy crowd – both between and during the songs – and a strictly applied curfew, leaving no time for an encore. Maybe it’s best that way: no time for self-congratulatory end-of-tour triumphalism, just a shit disco and a mountain of gear to pack away. A couple of hours later, everyone got back on the bus, except me, who had the foresight to book a b&b and a flight home on Saturday. I bade a fond farewell to everyone; Dave was the last. “Can’t believe I won’t see you tomorrow,” he said, and I’m not sure whether he was upset or deeply bloody relieved, but he set me off, and I blubbed all the way to the hotel.