Rob, Elliot, Neil and I decided to go for a quiet drink in my local pub. We ended up being pummelled furiously by the noise emanating from Gay Bingo Night, a new entertainment idea from the landlord, and hot on the heels of Camp Karaoke and Pink Pin The Tail On The Donkey. We tucked ourselves around the corner, out of sight of the stage and next to the Gents toilet. Neil complained about the smell of detergent, but it was preferable to having the chorus of Copacobana screamed at you at point blank range by a middle aged man in a wedding dress. I barely heard any numbers called out all night; it would have been a great disappointment to my sister, who goes to Gala Bingo on Essex Road in order to Win Cash, not to learn the art of double-entendre while correcting the caller on his lack of bingo knowledge – (Blind 90? Whatever happened to Top Of The Shop?)

We started talking about the most we had ever paid to see a gig, and the furthest we had ever travelled. Neil had travelled from the Midlands to London to see Strangelove on more than one occasion. Fool. I paid over 30 quid to see Steely Dan at Wembley; it transpired that Elliot was there too, sitting about 2 miles behind me where the ambient noise of the crowd drowned out the sax solo in “West Of Hollywood”.

About 3 years ago I saw that Magma were playing somewhere in northern France, and as it was at the beginning of my slight obsession with them I decided I'd like to go. Grab a ferry across, stay the night, red wine, cheese, come home. I sounded out , the only person I knew who could even barely tolerate Magma. He replied “Don't be so f*cking stupid, you freak.” So I didn't go. But today I see that they're playing Lille on the 29th January. Eurostar return, plus hotel, under £100. Bargain. I'm going. On my own, I guess.