I suppose you could say that I’ve been on tour.

On Saturday we drove to The Zodiac in Oxford. I’m a Libra, by the way. Well balanced, artistic, and, according to this, civilized, good looking, elegant, charming, kind and gentle. Just like Aleister Crowley and Heinrich Himmler. Pleased to meet you. Anyway, as with any group of people thrust together in an enclosed space, certain repetitive traits are being established. At least one Kinder Egg model must be constructed during the journey, using the AA Big Road Atlas 2004 as a work surface. The Guardian quick crossword must be demolished in 1 minute flat in a call and response fashion. An initial flurry of sociable chatter will dissolve into bored silences, punctuated with requests for toilet stops.

The Oxford crowd was vociferous and supportive, and we responded by playing them the list of songs that was taped to the stage. A point that oneofthose made yesterday and is worth making again: 99.9% of the time you’re at a show and call out for a song, you will be utterly ignored. Not because you’ve made a poor suggestion – although you may have done – or because the band is being rude, they’ve merely already choreographed the list of songs they’ve learned into a pleasing order. Calls for “Perfect Way” are unlikely to prompt us to pack up the gear, go to a rehearsal room, work out the song and return a week on Saturday to perform it. Actually, I think most audience members know this, and when they shout out for a tune, they’re actually saying “I am sufficiently familiar with your work to know the name of a song, and here it is, perhaps other members of the audience also know other song names that they would also like to call out.” You wouldn’t go to see the New York Philharmonic perform Mahler’s 4th Symphony, and after the second movement shout out “Elgar’s Cello Concerto, you bastards.” Just saying.

On Monday we went to Portsmouth. In order to get some work done, I got the train down, changing at Woking, although I could have changed at Haslemere, but I didn’t, I changed at Woking, and that doesn’t make me a bad person. One of the most splendid things about the Wedgewood Rooms is that after finishing the soundcheck you’re ushered into a kitchen where a fairly mad chef has cooked a range of tempting main courses, including vegetarian and vegan options, with strawberries and cream for pudding. Call me a bloody nutritionist, but I prefer that to a bag of chips from Fish World.

Monday night in Portsmouth was a subdued affair; although the audience was sizable, they all seemed to stare back at us quizzically after each song, as if they were expecting additional cabaret for a £16.50 ticket. I declined to up the Scritti Politti production values by riding a unicycle while juggling cornish pasties during “Dr Abernathy”, because it’s not dignified, is it. After the show we went back to the hotel, where Dicky and I shared a Trains, Planes and Automobiles moment as we entered our room and saw a double bed staring back at us. I love Dicky, and everything, but just not in that way. Fortunately it was sorted out; unfortunately he made me watch “Planet’s Funniest Animals” on ITV2.

We got up early on Tuesday and hared it back to London, where Gary Crowley was to interview the band for a 2-minute segment for the BBC1 local evening news. Obviously it took about 2 hours to get it nailed. I sat there saying nothing, preferring to come across as mean and moody, or at least mean, knowing that if I did say anything I’d come across as an idiot. I rang my sister. “Yes, I’ll be on the telly later, on London Tonight or whatever it’s called.” London Tonight is, of course, ITV’s early evening news, which Susannah dutifully videoed. Instead of Scritti Politti, she probably got a segment about civic art in Haringey.

Back to the Scala, for a fraught soundcheck in an unhelpfully resonant and booming room. Nerves get the better of everyone, and they scatter like the wind to various corners of London to mentally prepare. Fortunately, everyone comes back in time to go onstage at 9.30. The room is rammed, possibly sold out. Green is wearing a beautifully cut Vivienne Westwood suit; I’m in jeans and a stripy shirt and a blue tie made for me by drummer, Ralph, two minutes before we walk onstage. Contrasts, you see. We nervously walk on, and unexpectedly play a complete blinder. The roof lifted, the earth shook, the audience roared, we kept going, didn’t balls up, and didn’t even have to resort to Alyssa singing her song about her mother drinking gin while we debugged MIDI routing. A complete triumph. If you came to any of the gigs – particularly gleet in Portsmouth, scissorkicks and ozgirlabroad in Oxford, and spoombung and oneofthose last night, thank you immensely. It continues to be a blast. Not even a blast from the past. Just a blast.