Window or Aisle?

Window or aisle, when travelling to an international gig?

Usually a window, like most people, I suppose. But when I flew to the Falklands in an RAF Hercules in 1983, I sat with the pilot. All was good until the mid-air refuel over the Atlantic. It was like eating a vat of prunes.

After so many years on the road, can you pack for a trip without consciously thinking about it?

Yes, I have a travel bag that is emptied and re-packed ready for the next crusade. Unpacking usually involves unloading tea bags, biscuits, tiny soaps and shampoos I’m never going to use. No, I have never stolen a towel, or a bed for that matter. Obviously, I’ve stayed in some dodgy establishments, especially in my early bed-and-breakfast days when they had tea bags tied to hot-water bottles.

Are you a considerate hotel guest, or have years of carrying a guitar given you a liberal interpretation of acceptable noise?

Surprisingly, very considerate. I’ve never been a rock-and-roll muso, more Bob Dylan than Oasis. I never drink before or during a show, so I usually share a room with Jack Daniels until we both end up in deep slumber. However, having to check out at 10am, like most unreasonable hotels, I find grossly unfair and would vote for any party that passed a law for midday checkouts. Like most folk singers, I don’t entertain groupies, only carers—an age thing.

What is your preferred soundtrack for a long drive?

I love audiobooks and, having provided songs and soundtracks for Bill Bryson, I remain loyal and absolutely love his audiobooks, although they say laughing out loud when driving alone is an early sign of something medically sinister.

When you arrive somewhere unfamiliar, are you instinctively looking for the story beneath the surface?

Yes, it’s part of being a topical writer. I once stayed at Littlecote House in Hungerford, supposedly the most haunted house in Britain. It made a nice change to sleep with a stranger.

What is the strangest room in which you have been asked to perform?

An oil rig in the North Sea, and a one-nighter in Indonesia.

Are there regional differences in what audiences find funny, or do people laugh at essentially the same human failings everywhere?

Humour differs slightly in Great Britain, but more so internationally. I worked with Steve Martin in America and it was the only time I ever received applause over there, let alone laughs.

After playing the London Palladium and other major theatres, what can a tiny folk club offer that a grand venue cannot?

I started in folk clubs, before the advent of PA systems, so they have always been special to me. The folk scene was tiny but luminaries began on that circuit. David Bowie ran a club at The Three Tuns pub in Beckenham, Kent, but he would never book anyone unless you ran a club and booked him. After playing there and being refused a gig, my outraged mum booked a room above our local pub in the East End of London, The Denmark Arms, and she booked Bowie for £8. Then there was Mark Field, who was such a Dylan fan he changed his surname to the first two letters of Bob and last three letters of Dylan and became Marc Bolan. I played the London Palladium with Roy Orbison, who asked me to tune his famous red guitar—an honour.

Has your guitar ever experienced a traumatic journey to a performance?

Oh yes. Heading for a P&O cruise pick-up in the Seychelles, my guitar remained in Dubai. It was returned two months later.

Is there one song in your repertoire that belongs so strongly to a particular place that performing it transports you there?

Many such songs, probably the most poignant being The Ballad of Johnny Puller, about a World War One soldier who played in the 1914 Christmas Day football match in the trenches. I wrote it at Passchendaele after visiting the war graves, and I remember standing there every time I sing it. It was also used in a TV advert for chocolate.

Which historical figure would make the most interesting travelling companion, and why?

I’m an Isambard Kingdom Brunel groupie, although he died in 1859. I have written songs, a documentary and a stage play about the man. At home, I would rather have Banksy because at least I would have my dining room painted.

Has touring genuinely become less enjoyable, or has nostalgia edited out the broken-down vehicles, bad directions and questionable accommodation?

Far less enjoyable these days. I loved my days travelling in my VW camper van HTW 177H, but I hate motorways. It’s almost a sin to travel after a show, as they close often to give safety to workers who are never there or on their mobiles to their girlfriends. Last year, I had more points on my licence than my local team, West Ham.