I had the prospect of an unwelcome alarm call from a cheap clock radio at 6am this morning, but I managed to outwit the bastard by waking up three minutes before it went off. That’ll show it. I was required to travel to London’s fashionable Mayfair district in order to attend an interview at London’s not-quite-so-fashionable US Embassy, in order to get a visa for the upcoming Scritti Politti dates. “Everyone has to go for an interview,” we were told, “even Elton John.” As ever, the magic words “Elton John” led to my reluctant acceptance; it’s a well-worn tactic people have used on me ever since my childhood. “Eat your pork chop,” my mother would plead across a tantrum-laden table, “Elton John does.” “What about Bernie Taupin?” “Yes, he does, too, now get it bloody eaten.”

As if to prove that Elton John probably does have to – I mean queue for a visa, not eat a pork chop – I arrived at the embassy at 7.25am and slunk into line behind master-magician Derren Brown. While acknowledging that Derren’s powers are quite big, he, by contrast, is quite small. I looked down upon him with a mixture of interest, and height. The rest of the band turned up a few minutes later in a cab with all the paperwork, and they all pushed in the queue, but I’m sure the people behind won’t mind, as they can post on their blogs later today and say they were in the queue behind Scritti Politti, the queue-jumping bastards.

A painless security procedure and we were in, with ticket number 121. We noted that the automated voice calling out the tickets wasn’t a composite, slung together job – no, this guy had been recorded speaking each ticket number in full. We pondered on what number he went up to during the recording session, and whether he did overdubs – adding a little sibilance, a little extra air between “fifty” and “six” to add extra gravitas. “I’m really not happy with 119, I just can’t seem to get it.” Etcetera.

There are two banks of seats in the waiting room, facing each other. Derren Brown had taken up a position directly opposite me, and was staring intently at my head, probably trying to accomplish some kind of mind-meld. I can’t lie, I was troubled by this. I wanted to look round to see if he was looking at something behind my head, but I couldn’t bring myself to, and I started to ponder whether it was Derren Brown who was preventing me from doing so. At this point he nudged the person next to him, pointed at my head and laughed, at which point I realised that yes, he probably was looking at my head, and was probably trying to get me to cry. I managed not to. Nearly.

The interview was a piece of piss. I was asked how to pronounce my name, which I already knew, and whether I had been to the USA before, which I hadn’t. I wondered what questions are asked of Elton John when he’s standing at the booth. “Have you lived your life like a candle in the wind?” “No.” “Thank you Mr Dwight, that will be all.” We left the building and decamped to a nearby cafe for some scrambled eggs, and I pondered on the 10-hour flight which will take me to Los Angeles at the end of the month. I’m not keen, of course, but I’ve been told that even Elton John has to, so I suppose I will.