Freshly arrived from Argentina, a breath of fresh air, a bringer of hope, an inspiration to the faithful and the nemesis of the Evil One. No, don't worry, I haven't gone all Catholic on you. I'm talking about Brighton's new centre forward Leo Ulloa and the way he ripped our arch-rivals Crystal Palace apart last weekend. Absolutely wonderful.
Before that, I was up north. Well, Cambridge, which is north when you live on the Sussex coast although it may not seem so to you.
A lovely, packed gig with the excellent Ferocious Dog - that's a band, not an actual animal - and then up to Bury's Gigg Lane ground the next morning for a Saturday lunchtime spot at Course You Can Malcolm, the surreally named pre-match radical cabaret run by my friends at FC United of Manchester, the club created by Man U fans disgusted with what corporate football has become.
Yes, the fans own and run the club and before games they invite punk bands and loud shouty left-wing poets to entertain them.
And since it was International Women's Day, they had all-male bar staff and a film about their women's team called, appropriately, A Woman's Place Is On The Pitch.
A vision of what football should be and always a pleasure, folks. Anyone who loves football and hates capitalism, hopefully at least 90 per cent of Star readers, should check them out at www.fc-utd.co.uk.
From there I made the short trip to Bolton, where the Seagulls sadly lost, and then to Huddersfield for another gig.
And it came to pass that it was one of those gigs, the sort that happen occasionally where nobody did any publicity, there were eight billion other events on the same night, it was snowing and hardly anyone turned up.
But whether I am playing to 900 people, 90 or nine - as on that night - I always give it my all and the post gig session/political discussion was great fun...
Then to my mother-in-law's in Northwich who's 91 and still living at home, and another defeat for the Seagulls at Barnsley a couple of days later and back to Sussex.
Sadly, my home county has a lot of Ukip voters, and I've written a poem for them, based on careful observation. Chin-chin!
We're not fascists, are we, dear?
Bring that bottle over here.
Now. Where was I? Enoch Powell?
Sod this irritable bowel!
Do you play goff? Come down the club.
Just a snifter, lovely grub...
What, no blazer? Borrow mine.
Chin chin. Maggie, '79!
Now. Where was I? Nigel Farage.
Dear! More bottles in the garage.
Really don't want to disparage
But he should pronounce it Farridge.
Agincourt and Waterloo
Showed those Frenchies what to do.
Entente cordiale - bloody shame.
Wonder how he got that name?
Now. Where was I? Edward Heath.
Awful man with awful teeth.
He's the one who started this -
Led us into the abyss.
It would have been so much easier
To have teamed up with Rhodesia.
Bloody Poles. This gin is strong!
Oh, it's vodka. Got that wrong...
Now, where was I? Fascists? No.
I fought them, I'll have you know.
Well, I nearly did - too young.
Something's happening to my tongue!
Bloody Poles. I need a kip.
Do have one more. Just a nip...
Upstairs, ere my senses fail.
Eileen, where's the Daily Mail?
One last parting shot, young man:
Country's going down the pan.
Anyone with half a brain
Is selling up and off to Spain.
Part of that's in Europe, true -
But not the bit we're going to.
Bloody Poles. My poor old head...
See yourself out. Off to bed!
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