As the small, watery-eyed figure of John Bramwell rocked his right leg back and forth on a wilting beer crate his entire body swayed too, as if he was about to topple over and take the pint of Guiness set on a table to his left with him.

A wistful, empty gaze from above his guitar, masking a surly depth behind, passed straight through the crowd into the Hanbury darkness and Bramwell snarled, “Hell for leather, lathered, drunk...You’re soused, you’re p****d, you’re sunk.... The jukebox now, is drunk, just along the way...”.

Never have three more beautiful lines been executed so accurately.

By the time he reached Storm Warming the PA had failed and we were informed the Hanbury, apparently, used to be a mausoleum.

“It’s seen lots of spirits, just like me,” Bramwell confessed.

Not that this show was a shambles. In fact, it was Bramwell proving just how good a songwriter he really is – one of the nation’s best. The few who bothered to venture out on a frosty December Monday saw a man with his guard down, taking requests, trying his hand at Blackbird by the Beatles.

Bramwell, with his love for drink, his self-deprecating wit, his wicked eye for words and shrewd melody making, came across as every bit the tormented master.

In ruefully comparing the night to an evening in Oscar Wilde’s living room, embarassed at unwelcome, intense reverence, he cleverly revealed the importance of being earnest.