Baxter Dury, tall, lanky, hair more salt than pepper, is sitting in a west London cafe near the river. He’s too tall for the cafe table: his legs fold in half as if his knees are spring-loaded. We’re ...

Brat summer is over. Welcome to Bax summer? “I f***ing hope so,” says Baxter Dury, deadpan and dapper as ever — besuited but with the laconic manner of someone who’s just got out of bed — in the ...