'I'm too old for all that standing up and singing lark'

My manager rings. "I've got you a gig in Eastbourne tomorrow."

"Not interested," I say. "My back's killing me and I'm too old for all that standing up and singing lark."

"It'll be fine. It's at an old people's home and there'll be only 30 there. Or 29, if nice Mr Briggs doesn't make it through the next 24 hours."

"Sounds more like it. They won't be all pissed and rowdy, will they?"

"Nah – they're given their meds at 6.30pm, so they'll be good as gold."

"I still want a rider in the contract. Just in case. Anyone caught bringing Horlicks into the gig gets slung out. We don't want them spilling it or throwing it at me, do we? And it'd be nice to start early: I'm good for nothing next day if I'm up after 10pm."

The band arrives in Eastbourne in time for a bracing walk on the seafront and a cream tea on the pier, then we head for the Peace Haven Rest Home where I change into stretch cords and slippers before going on stage. "Hello-o-o-o, Eastbourne!"

"Could you speak a bit louder?" says Mrs Adamson in the front row. "My hearing aid isn't working well."

"I'd rather not," I reply. "I can't stand too much noise."

We kick off with a quiet version of Everyday Is Like Sunday that gets the place rocking and I'm about to start the second number when Mrs Adamson interrupts again: "Can we stop now, dear? We don't want to miss Corrie. Why don't you join us?"

"What a great idea," I say.

Today Eastbourne, tomorrow Torquay Crematorium. Blinding tour.