As a fan of Kings of Leon I was torn as to whether or not to buy tickets to their gig last Friday. Perhaps it was the fact I've already seen them live a couple of times, perhaps it was that the Point being renamed The o2 somehow seems to piss on my teenage memories of seeing cracking gigs like Ash in '96 and Blur in '97 there, perhaps it's the fact that the hordes of new fans they seem to have gathered in the wake of Sex on Fire making every radio station's daytime playlist would inevitably annoy the shite out of me, but I decided not to go. Then last week the rumours circulated that U2 would be supporting them and some inevitable pangs of envy flared up.
Too late though, I had tickets to Kerbdog at Andrew's Lane for the same evening. You don't remember them, but they were great. This would be cool, I thought, it's a chance to see a real band, with real fans, in a real venue. And other italicised smug sentiments.
As it turns out though, I'm a little too old to watch Cormac Battle drunkenly shamble his way through the set and spit at his bassist. And he is definitely too old to be doing it.