NOW more than halfway through the first leg of my autobiography tour — every gig different, every gig a celebration in its own way.

I am having an absolutely wonderful time and offloading mountains of books, I am happy to say.

A week ago yesterday I drove cross-country from Aberystwyth to Swindon and saw at first hand what utter jokers the Ukip/Britain First brain-dead bigot brigade are.

They claim that Britain is “overcrowded.”

Well, as I made my way east via the teeming metropolises of, erm, Llandrindod Wells and Talgarth, I was overwhelmed both by the beauty of the countryside and by the spectacular lack of people.

At the risk of confirming a national stereotype, it really is sheep city round there.

London may indeed be pretty full.

But coming from Brighton, a city often patronisingly referred to as London-on-Sea, I’d say it’s full of itself more than anything else.

And London is not Britain. Refugees are more than welcome here.

And when I say every gig is different, I mean that, and sometimes ridiculously so.

At the Swindon gig last week I proved something to myself.

At 58 years of age, my poetry gonads are still intact.

I can certainly front up when I need to.

I played a pub frequented by people who have been banned from Wetherspoons and I got an encore.

And this weekend I am at the Aldeburgh Poetry Festival.

Wine, canapes and slim volumes will be invaded by real ale, Doctor Martens and a bloody great 300-page autobiography.

I love my job in all its diversity, I really do.

I started the Welsh leg off last Tuesday week at a lovely cafe in Cardiff Bay.

Then I spent much of the next day cycling round the huge and renovated harbour before heading to the recently revived and lovely Parrot Music Bar in Carmarthen.

This Parrot was, sadly, an ex-Parrot for a short time.

But, fortunately, an energetic campaign by local musicians and supporters ensured that it ceased ceasing to be, stopped pushing up the daisies and shuffled back on to the mortal coil.

Well done to all those who saved the one and only place for miles around which welcomes alternative culture.

There I had a reunion with local resident Cush, guitarist and vocalist with my old mates The Men They Couldn’t Hang.

They joined me on stage for some totally unrehearsed but well-received renditions of a few of their classic songs.

Then to the Druid in Goginan, near Aberystwyth, a kind of beer-sodden retirement home for old punks and hippies.

There I was welcomed with open arms and, after the aforementioned Swindon gig and a hard-fought 1-1 draw for the still-unbeaten Seagulls at the Madjeski Stadium in Reading last Saturday, I charged down to Southampton for a sold-out show at the Art House.

Then I drove home in the middle of the night and back up to Reading the next day for a gig at their wonderful, community-run Rising Sun Arts Centre.

Next stop Aldeburgh.

Then I’m in the north-west for four gigs and plenty more after that, including the mini-festival Londonwick which I’m organising at the New Cross Inn, South London, on Sunday November 29 from 3-10.30pm.

On the bill are the mighty Thee Faction, brilliant young all-women band The Tuts, ex-Adverts TV Smith, Brighton’s legendary Piranhas and ace RMT activist-poet Janine Booth.

Yours truly will be reading from my book and playing with my band Barnstormer.

And there will be a short film too — the premiere of Farouq Suleiman’s documentary. I’m far, far too modest to tell you what it’s about.

Cheers comrades…