Hello, and welcome back to the Britpop Survivor blog after the Christmas and New Year hiatus. The good news is I am still alive, and so thus can continue to justifiably describe myself as a Britpop Survivor.

Two days ago I headed to Brighton for an all-dayer in support of Amnesty, organised by the redoubtable yoeman of English pop Chris T-T.

It took place in a village hall on a hill, and was bring your own booze*. I had managed to fail to note the literal meaning of the ‘midwinter picnic’ monicker, and so my friend and I were pretty much the only people who had not arrived with vast quantities of nosh. I even noticed one fellow attendee with a proper old-fashioned picnic basket, which made me realise that there will always be people more organised and prepared than me. Though this is not saying much: you are likely to be more organised and prepared than me if you have tied your shoes and are aware what day it is.

The reason I booked my tickets in the first place was because Chris T-T was involved, and I had assumed he would be the headliner. So it was fortunate that we made it into our seats by 3.30pm or so, as he was unexpectedly the first act on, since most of the acts were stranded somewhere between Brighton and London due to the trains being replaced by bus replacement services, which should more accurately be described as train replacement services.

He was brilliant. There are two types of Chris T-T gigs – the vengeful full band ones, and the more heartfelt, thoughtful, solo ones. Personally I much prefer the latter. Chris remarked that he’s been trying to get himself on the bill for the Cambridge Folk Festival, but they keep missing his acoustic gigs and turning up for the rock ones instead, so don’t book him. The campaign to get the representatives of the Cambridge Folk Festival to turn up to the correct Chris T-T gigs starts here. I feel we may need a catchier title for it.

Gig highlight was English Earth. I paraphrase wildly here, but he said it was “the best folk song written in ages” and also “a song about loving England without being all nationalistic and stupid”. And he’s right. We talk shit, we take drugs, we waste time, and afterwards… I never know where we’ve been. And I also believe I’ll be buried in the English Earth (mainly because I’m terrified of cremation because of a James Bond film I saw when I was very young). And I still ate meat in the eighties – it’s too late for me too.

Though the bloke I’d travelled to see had been on first, there was still much to enjoy. Firstly, the people around my table were lovely. They offered me assorted tofu-related snacks, and also whisky, and one of them was from Teddington but have never visited Teddington Wimpy: a crime in my silly book. And one of them was stalking Frank Turner.

Secondly, the rest of artists were fairly cracking. Emily Barker’s songs were beautiful, like being in a creaking wooden pub by the sea; Jim Bob (he of indie legends Carter The Unstoppable Sex Machine) was silly and charming; special guest Frank Turner was once again the song-based equivalent to three pints of guiness and loving all your mates; and Timothy Victor’s Folk Orchestra were a parping, fiddling, double bassing triumph, though I still can’t quite work out how they all managed to fit on that tiny stage, and the vocals were near inaudible at times. It is also important to note that the trumpet player and the trombone player reminded me of Danny DeVito and Arnie in comedy film classic Twins, even though they looked nothing like them.

Unfortunately I left before Spiers and Boden, who I hear are stunning live. But I had a lovely day, and learnt that if someone you think is great is playing an all-dayer in a silly venue, you should definitely go along. But you probably knew that already.

*Though tea and cake was available. Gigs with tea. Can you imagine anything more civilised?