My dad arranged for my L-reg Ford Fiesta Fashion to be put through its MOT, which I discoved stands for “Ministry Of Transport”. So, he actually arranged for it to be put through its MOT Test, because getting a car through the Ministry Of Transport would have been tricky. Some jobsworth at their desk would be bound to notice. Anyway, I went to pick it up, to find that my dad had been up since 6.30am washing the thing, applying T-Cut to the exterior and then buffing it up with some red polish. It looks astonishing. You can see your face in it, or at the very least a reflection of your face. Amazing. I decided to celebrate by decimating the environment and driving to a couple of gigs that I wouldn’t normally have been able to get to.

The first was Cud, who were rounding off their unlikely reunion tour with a show in Tunbridge Wells. I found out that scissorkicks was also going, so we travelled together in his air-conditioned Suzuki; I took a train to Woking, and he picked me up in the late afternoon. “I feel like I’m picking you up from school,” he said. “You’re not, though, are you,” I said. “No.” We avoided the M25 and took a series of country lanes, passing through quaint villages such as Holmbury St Mary which were rammed solid with delectable-looking pubs. We vowed to come back one day, with a chauffeur, and generally get our kicks on the B2126.

The venue in Tunbridge Wells is a converted public toilet. Interesting, that in converting the building that they found room for a venue, and also a public toilet. One wonders what all the room in the original public toilet was devoted to. Loads and loads of toilets, I guess. I wandered over the road and dined on Kentucky Fried Chicken, for the first time ever. It consists of pieces of chicken fried in a unique blend of spices. It was grim. I went back to the venue and watched Cud. They were great, although their “new” guitarist, Felix, was a bit heavy on the distortion and general heroics for my liking. Observe the song Strange Kind Of Love, at your leisure. Back “in the day” I saw Cud a number of times, including one memorable gig in Blackpool where, as part of their rider which specified “a mystery gift”, they’d been given a dog. Inappropriate, but funny. I’m not sure what happened to the dog.

On Sunday I drove to Brighton to watch Sam Callow – aka 4Treck – perform his first-ever UK show at the Freebutt. I’ve been buying his home-made CDs for years and felt it would be worth the journey; Leighton & Kevin from the dormant Flitwick Records agreed, and drove all the way from, er, Flitwick. I dined on eat-as-much-as-you-like Chinese. It was grim. I went back to the venue and sat in bored, sober silence with Leighton and Kevin, who I’ve known for years but don’t see very often. After a while I spoke up. “Nice to see you,” I said. “Yeah. Nice to see you, too,” said Leighton, staring straight ahead, into space. Silence. Giggling. That’s what friends are for, I guess.

Sam looked nervous, but he needn’t have been, it was only the piss-soaked Freebutt, after all. He played 35 minutes of wonderfully baffling instrumentals, and one vocal-led song called “No, No, No, No, No” which went “No, No, No, No, No.” Thoroughly satisfied with the entertainment, I bid a raised-eyebrow goodbye to Leighton and Kevin, and drove back to London, passing a signpost to a town called Warninglid. I proceeded to say “Warninglid” many, many times over the next hour. Warninglid.