If there’s one thing I’ve learnt through being one of the nicest men in rock, it’s that bands will always be late. They can plan to set off one hour or a couple of hours ahead, even allow an extra day to reach their destination, and they’ll still roll up at the venue minutes before they’re due to take the stage, with a trail of oil behind the van, or a drummer with their arm in a sling and their head in a plastercast. Nothing so dramatic happened yesterday on our trip to the Hay-on-Wye Literary Festival, but we were still a bit late.

While the splitter bus took the scenic route via South Wales and the Brecon Beacons, I took the scenic route via Gloucestershire and Hereford (tricky to avoid scenic routes in this part of the world, however hard you try.) I drove in my thrusting beast of an L-reg Ford Fiesta with Jenny, Dicky and Jess accompanying me, all of us entertained by the alternating sounds of Fleetwood Mac’s Albatross and Henry Blofeld’s Depressed Looking Pigeon Circling Trent Bridge. “Can we stop, I think I’m going to be sick,” I hoped one of my passengers would ask. “You should have thought of that before you left home,” I planned to reply. Oh, the power of the driver.

We arrived at Baskerville Hall, which, as a literary type, I know has something or other to do with Sherlock Holmes or something. We went round the back to the venue, a building with the rather grand name of Clyro Court. It was, in fact, a large concrete box, but the view from the front door was extraordinary, a vast panorama of exquisite Welsh countryside. “It’s not the Kilburn High Road, is it,” said someone, wistfully. We set up, soundchecked, sat on a white double-decker bus doubling as a dressing room, and waited for the sell-out audience to show up at 10.30, which they dutifully did, bless them.

“This, for the first time in quite a few years, is Scritti Politti”, said Green, before we played the following tunes:

The Boom Boom Bap / Snow In Sun / Robin Hood / After Six / E11th Nuts / Come Clean / Dr Abernathy / The “Sweetest Girl” / Am I Right In Thinking / Cooking / Road To No Regret / D to the O / Mrs Hughes / Edge Of Degradation

The beginning of “Sweetest Girl” was a good moment: Karren Ablaze, Leeds indie mover and shaker of yore and now resident in a Buddhist temple somewhere in Humberside, nearly fell over in shock, and her mouth remained open for the rest of the song. “It’s… it’s really Scritti Politti,” she said to me afterwards. I concurred, while swigging from a can of John Smith’s Extra Smooth Bitter With Widget. After the show, we left for a Literary Festival members club, where Rowan Pelling, former editor of The Erotic Review, stood in the corner surrounded by a number of men who were all giving her some kind of erotic review. Victoria Aitken sat on her own in another corner, wearing a cardigan and with a book balanced on her knees; she looked if she was doing her homework. We offered her no help with her homework, preferring instead to watch a posh bloke in chinos and smart blue shirt frugging in a desperate fashion on the dancefloor, opposite a sultry vixen in a strappy top who was gyrating provocatively to “Beat It” by Michael Jackson. He was so overwhelmed by this sight, all he could do was snigger, while continuing to frug desperately. He’s probably the president of Bloomsbury, for all I know.

We left the club as the sun was coming up. Dicky told us about the Cardiff branch of Friends Of The Earth, who, he said, answer the phone with the phrase “Frembly Earth Crumbly”. He wasn’t sure why. “That’ll be ‘Friends Of The Earth Cymru’,” I said, helpfully. “I’m tempted to stay up all night,” said Green. “Yes!” agreed almost everyone. But 30 minutes later, we were all fast asleep in the hotel, except Ralph, who went to sit by the river, filming the gorgeous sunrise on a borrowed camcorder.

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Addendum 1: The new Scritti Politti album got a 5-star review in the soaraway Sun, yesterday, and a 2-star review in The Guardian, sponsors of the Hay Literary Festival. Idiots. The Sun, for once, is correct.

Addendum 2. Courtesy of the persistently marvellous elysesewell comes this splendid Chinese menu.