ONE of the testimonies to how much I love the life I lead as a performance poet and musician is that, barring truly exceptional circumstances, I don’t cancel gigs.

I’ve tottered on stage with a monster temperature, staggered on with a broken leg, wheeled myself on with two knackered hamstrings and performed standing on a wall in a field in Wales after the fascists who attacked the gig had been kicked out by a combination of the audience and the local rugby club and the event closed down by the police. All in a night’s work.

I did cancel a few during my mother’s long and heartbreaking battle with Alzheimer’s but not many — the unbelievable support of my wife enabled us to care for her and me to fulfil most of my bookings as well. It’s a wonderful privilege to earn my living doing what I love and my commitment is total.

But occasionally I encounter a seemingly insurmountable problem — I lose my voice. When that happens, most performers do cancel gigs, for a very obvious reason. I don’t. I have a magical remedy.

It was revealed to me many years ago at a small festival where I was supporting Steve Harley, he of Cockney Rebel fame. I was croaking away like a frog who had been listening to too much Tom Waits and seriously worried that I would be reduced to literally whispering my poetry on stage, not exactly my regular performance style.

A fellow musician approached, can’t remember who it was. “You can’t do a gig sounding like that,” he said. “Drink some Worcester sauce, it’ll bring your voice back.”

“What, you mean tomato juice with some in?” I said.

“No. Straight from the bottle. Like a slug of whisky.”

Previous experience telling this story indicates that many people will by now be going “What?” and inwardly — or maybe even outwardly — retching at the thought. But the thing is, I have always loved Worcester sauce. It has anchovies in it and I love anchovies. I can happily eat a whole tinful, straight from the tin, with a fork, just like that. With Worcester sauce as a garnish, if the mood takes me. So I was completely unfazed by this information.

I headed straight for the nearest grocery shop, bought a bottle of Lea and Perrins and necked some just before my performance. Sure enough, my Tom Waits-eating-iron-filings voice became, if not Freddie Mercury, at least Lou Reed. I did my gig. It was fine. And that was the start of a long and productive occasional medicinal relationship with the little brown bottle with the distinctive label.

Last Thursday in Leicester was the latest episode. Completely mute. On the verge of turning into a Whispering Bob Harris tribute act. A quarter of a bottle later, voice back and ready to go.

First thing to say, for obvious reasons, is that this cure is not for everyone. It’s a spoken word remedy, not a singing remedy — political speakers take note. And an obvious warning. Vomiting on stage was hip for about three minutes in the very early days of punk but it isn’t in 2018. You have to be able to keep the stuff down. But if you can, you can turn the very act of swigging from a bottle of Worcester sauce on stage into a kind of performance art.

There you go, comrades. Strange sauce-related performance tips alongside the political polemic.

On Saturday, my band Barnstormer 1649 launch our new album Restoration Tragedy at our local Ropetackle Arts Centre in Shoreham. I am incredibly pleased with the critical response to the album and having the time of my life playing it all. Please come if you can.

The following weekend I’m out east for an anti-fracking gig at the Jolly Brewer in Lincoln on Friday and Labour Party fundraisers at Bury St Edmunds Unitarians on Saturday and Great Yarmouth Football Club on Sunday. Kick out the hapless, clueless, heartless Tories. The future is ours!

Restoration Tragedy is available from attileathestockbroker.com and you can listen to some of the tracks at soundcloud.com/barnstormer1649