A GALE is howling, the bosun is hollering in the rigging, and below deck the ragtag mob of a crew is draining the grog barrel and bellowing out shanties in seven-part harmonies hewn and honed over a thousand nights at sea.

Port Isaac’s world-famous Fisherman’s Friends have sailed up the Thames to Oxford and dropped anchor in our fair city, unbelievably for the very first time since they started singing together 26 years ago.

Oxford Town Hall is packed to the rafters with fans of all ages, though the fact that we have been seated in neat rows rather than left to stand is a nod to the fact that the vast majority of the audience are of the ‘Radio 2 demographic’.

On stage, looking just slightly out of place under what they describe as the ‘wedding cake’ vaulted ceiling, the seven friends from the small fishing port on the north Cornish coast are belting out shanties in glorious harmony, some dating from the 19th century (South Australia) and some original numbers.

At the head of the band is larger-than-life Jon Cleave with his stripey sailor top and waxed moustaches looking for all the world like a 19th century strong man, telling filthy jokes to liven up the crowd.

We’re also roped into chanting along ‘A pirate! A pirate!’ with fist-pumps in the air and doing all the actions for the Fisherman’s Friends classic ‘A sailor ain’t a sailor ain’t a sailor any more’.

The friends are on fine form, which makes it all the more shameful that on their very first visit to Oxford the venue is so badly suited: for a start you should never sit in orderly rows when singing along to sea shanties. Secondly the electronic amplification in a hall designed for a cappella singing stirs some of the beautiful harmonies into a sonic soup. But the most unforgivable sin, which even Mr Cleave points out on stage, is the fact the town hall hasn’t provided us a single drop to drink.

“I didn’t realise you didn’t have a bar to go to at half time,” he jokes at the start of the second half, “you must be bored stiff! You should have all come back stage with us.”

The friends were very obliging about the bizarre lack of refreshments, but if they ever bother coming back to Oxford I would strongly recommend their agent check out the sea shanty night at the the White Hart in Wolvercote: a roaring fire, a friendly barmaid and, mostly importantly, a flagon of grog to whet the whistle. Arrrr!