IT’S getting biblical, isn’t it? Floods, pandemics, a plague of locusts in Africa. Never in my lifetime has the news been so unremittingly bleak and a diagnosis of a long-term lung problem caused by other people’s cigarette smoke over 40 years of gigs doesn’t improve the mood.

Still, I remain absolutely undaunted, as per the title of my last poetry book, and had a thoroughly enjoyable weekend in Yorkshire a couple of weeks ago with four gigs in three days, sandwiched around a much-needed point for the Seagulls at Sheffield United.

It took me eight hours to drive from the Sussex coast to Hebden Bridge — I have no alternative, I can’t carry all the tools of my trade on the train — but I wasn’t worried about my late arrival because I knew the audience at the lovely Fox & Goose would be in the capable hands of the very young, very talented and completely nuts Isaac Hughes Dennis.

Finally made it halfway through his set to hear what can only be described as a heavy metal kazoo/ukulele riff. I have always believed that both these instruments should replace the noble recorder as instruments permissible in primary school music lessons and banned from everywhere else, but Isaac made a sterling case for a change of heart on my part.

He was absolutely brilliant, the highlight being his wonderful marriage proposal to Jeremy Corbyn. I think Jeremy’s already taken, sorry.

If you’ve got a fundraiser, festival or anything else coming up, and you want a performer who literally doesn’t sound like anything else on the planet — in a good way — book him. He’s going to be an utter cult hero for decades, as long as he doesn’t learn to play any proper instruments.

I was very impressed by the fortitude and solidarity of the people of Hebden Bridge and the Calder Valley in general, faced as so many are with utter government indifference towards what is going to be a permanent flooding issue.

We shouldn’t expect anything better from Tories, obviously. In so many areas of life, we are on our own now and have to look after each other at local level rather than trust Johnson’s testiculations. Unspeakable, but true.

After the football I made my way to Hagglers’ Corner in Sheffield, a lovely multi-purpose creative space with great beer and lovely people, where local poet Graham Parker served up a stirring and emotional set before I did my stuff.

Then, on the Sunday, I had two great shows at the Grayston Unity in Halifax, which claims to be the country’s smallest venue. I’ve done around 3,000 gigs in the UK and I think it is.

On Saturday, I’m back at one of my favourite haunts, Katie Fitzgerald’s in Stourbridge, with sterling support from BBC 6 Music Steve Lamacq favourite The Humdrum Express and landlord rocker Eddy Morton. That’s after Brighton play Wolves, of course.

Finally, I’d like to congratulate the paper for printing Janine Booth’s What A Croc, a poetic response to the recent transphobic cartoon — another example of the left devouring itself while the right looks on, sneering and rubbing its hands with glee.

This is the worst time I can remember in my life for socialists and we are still arguing with and throwing insults at each other.

Personally, I have vowed to not argue with anyone else on the left ever again about anything. Apart from football and Genesis getting back together, obviously.

Talking of Janine Booth, I shall be reviewing her excellent new poetry book in my next column. Until then, The Internationale is the best song to wash your hands to, and please, please, look after each other, because this government isn’t intending to.