Bostin

York Fibbers may only be a tiny northern club on the indie circuit, but on Friday night, opening for Dodgy, it was my Wembley, o2 Arena and Hammersmith Apollo all rolled up into one. My previous five gigs (and the five before that and the five before that) have all been in various pubs and folk clubs playing open mic and singers nights. I usually play sitting down and there's invariably somebody on a nearby stool singing a 62 verse sea shanty with his finger in his ear. And there'll be a raffle in the interval. Sometimes I'm spoiled and a plate of sandwiches comes out; you'd be surprised at 10 o'clock, after four pints of Leeds Best, how well egg and mayo between two slices of bread goes down.


Fibbers, on the other hand, don't do raffles. Or sea shanties. But they do have a rather good sound man and a PA that meant I could probably be heard in Leeds. And though I didn't have a rider I think they're more used to M&Ms than egg and mayo; that said, I doubt Dodgy typed up their requests, strange or otherwise, on 53 typed sheets of A4.

Anyway, armed with nothing more than my guitar I walked on the stage, adjusted my microphone and plugged the guitar in. I was out of the traps. With the spots trained on me like a gun turret searchlight I had no idea where anybody was and could just about make out the bar at the back of the room.

I played a greatest hits set - opening with Camberwick Green and finishing with Leeds1972. It went well. Even though I say so myself. Straight to the bar and a catch up with my glee club before three proper musicians took to the stage: I've been hanging on to Dodgy's coat tails for over 20 years and they just get better and better. I must thank Nigel, Matthew and Andy, again, for having me on the bill. Three nicer fellas you couldn't wish to meet.

A one word summation of the night? Bostin.

Displacement

It's OK lads, you go ahead without me

displace .v. move from the proper or usual position
I tweeted a while ago that one of the reasons I was probably never asked to join The Rolling Stones was my disinclination to living out of a suitcase. That and the fact that me and Mick would be constantly arguing about the merits of opening the set with Miss You.

However, from time to time, being a freelancer, my work takes me away from home. Which is fine if I can see an end date; I can chalk the days off in true cartoon prison style. My destinations, however, are nowhere near as glamorous as a Stones world tour and my digs probably not as decadent as The Hyatt in West Hollywood. But it's OK. It might not be rock and roll, but I'm learning to like it.

Chucking the guitar on the back seat of the car every Monday morning helps: I've lost track of the number of pubs, clubs and open mics I've found on my travels. I've met some great people and have always been humbled by the reception my songs get in an alien environment. Not least The Catweazzle Club in Oxford. Decked out like a harem with candles, joss sticks and leather settees it's probably one of the best venues I've played in. And playing whilst seated on a gold lamé chair was fun too.

I met a lovely German girl in the interval. Anna was from Munich and her English was perfect. I told her, however, that despite her total command of the language she probably wouldn't understand a word of my Camberwick Green song. I dedicated it to her anyway.

Speaking of songs, I'm really quite excited about an upcoming songwriting workshop with Clive Gregson. I've been a big fan of Clive's since his days with Any Trouble. And I must have been to see Gregson & Collister a couple of dozen times in the late eighties and early nineties. It's been held in someone's house and after the workshop, in true pop-up style, Clive's playing a house concert. As I said, I'm getting excited about it. Almost as excited as I am about supporting Dodgy at York Fibbers on 13 June. But more about that nearer the time.

Half day closing on Tuesday

C of Green and sky of blue

When I find myself in times of trouble Mother Mary doesn't come to me; instead, more often than not, I retreat into my childhood. And I always go back to a particular place. Tucked away in a leafy part of Middle England, far away from eight lane motorways, IKEA and the threat of HS2 is a forgotten county. It's called Trumptonshire. Comprising little more than the county town of Trumpton and two neighbouring villages, Chigley and Camberwick Green, it was recently voted the most desirable location to live in Britain. But you won't be able to track what property prices are doing on Right Move, nor check out the standard of its hotels and restaurants on Trip Advisor. I couldn't even tell you how to get there. But I can tell you that in Camberwick Green the sun is always shining. And half day closing is on Tuesday.

John Medd: (The Sun Always Shines On) Camberwick Green

Bake Off

Mr. Murphy

* Camberwick Green parking permit: 98 %
* Faithful to his wife: 100 %
* Selling delicious walnut cakes for 5 shillings: 100 %
* Brian Cant voice-over: 100 %
* National Treasure: 96 %
* Flour supplied by Windy Miller: 100 %
* Baker Man: 99 %

Mr. Hollywood

 * Camberwick Green parking permit: 0 %
 * Faithful to his wife: 2 %
 * Selling delicious walnut cakes for 5 shillings: 1 %
 * Brian Cant voice-over: 0 %
 * National Treasure: 3 %
 * Flour supplied by Windy Miller: 0 %
 * Baker Man: 10 %