It's a Bonzo life: On the road with Phill Jupitus

As a teenager I visited Bournemouth and, as I marvelled at how clear the sea water was, got savagely sunburned. I played the pier in 1985 with Billy Bragg, I played the conference centre with Madness in 2001 and, for my latest visit, I'm limping through the door in style with the Bonzos. To give a certain circle-of-life vibe, Bragg has come with Juliet his missus, and son Jack, who is a Bonzos freak. Bill regaled me with tales of father-son drives to school bellowing Mister Slater's Parrot at each other while barrelling through the Dorset countryside. Bill has waited to see the Bonzos, like so many of us, for over thirty years.

His son has had a touch less of a wait. In fact, to him they're a new band. I swallow over-the-counter pain killers like they're going out of style and drop hints with anybody wearing a laminate who will listen that I need "medicine". Sadly with these seasoned veterans you're more likely to get sanatogen and propecia slammers than anything else. I make a mental note to do a gag about Innes snorting lines of Horlicks pre-gig. The gig itself is an old-style variety hall that has seen better days but still retains its regency charm. The main auditorium has had all the seats ripped out, but an ornate wrought iron balcony runs round the hall to give it a nice tatty, snug feel. We wonder if some of the ageing Bonzo-philes will be able to stand for the requisite two hours, the audience being, more often than not, of advanced years.

Ade Edmondson and I stare out at the seatless void. "I might try and crowd surf during Mister Slater's Parrot," he says. I point out that the crowd may not be up to such exertions, and we press on with the soundcheck. Myself and the lovely Mrs Jupitus venture outside to soak up the local vibes and are met with a soulless and mostly shut pedestrianised high street. A glance to the left and we see the golden arches and the usual smattering of baseball caps and tracksuits. In the other direction there's f*** all, so we saunter past McDonald's and see a sign for a trattoria so chance our arm on the local lasagne. On entering, the surly waitress lets us sit down and cast off our coats and scarves before telling us that we'll have to wait at least 40 minutes for food as she's alone.

We dress and limp back to the gig, and graze round the buffet that's been laid on. We hook up with the Braggs who get set up in the balcony while I get changed. The show runs a lot smoother tonight, but I still can't nail all the lyrics to Look Out There's a Monster Coming. Ade gamely tries to crowd surf and, after about six feet and a lot of huffing and puffing, for the first time in my life I see a crow-surfing parrot sink into an ocean of humanity. At the interval, Bragg is appalled at me leaving my Gibson guitar out onstage during the set. "Ruskin Spear nearly had it over about half a dozen times. Smithers the guitar tech says as much himself and suggests me taking it on and off rather than leaving its glossy fate to the tap-dancing, spoon-playing, robot-building eccentrics. During the epic Intro And Outro, Innes improvises: "...and on guest list, Billy Bragg!"

Tomorrow is Wales, and Edmondson suggests my singing The Valleys Of Your Mind rather than Canyons... dare I?

This blog appeared on The Times Online, 6th November 2006.