‘We played Glastonbury this year at 11 o’clock in the morning,’says FF MC Jon Cleave from under a moustache that could fair hide a few badgers.‘And it’s better here tonight!’Believable - we are awake, still firmly on the vertical side of hammered and back-dropped by a not very ugly 14th century fishing port.Despite the recording deal and the niche-kitsch-faddery nonsense that often follows,the FFs still play here to kids, dogs and the elderly Cornish every other Friday; Cleave linking the beautifully scant shanty and folk with plenty of fruit ‘n’ bawd and chugs from his pint glass. Ten men in their fifties singing in rich, melancholic harmony about storms, pirates and dying Whales, accompanied by squeezebox and drum is a heart-gladdening and wonderful Friday night out. An unusual sentiment, usurped only by my mate’s of:‘there’s a golden retriever in the audience I’m really into.’ Entry price: please put your small change in the charity bucket.