“Hands up who’s sick of debating what is, or isn’t punk?” begins Simple Plan’s somewhat defensive biography – but it’s about as relevant a question as what constitutes an authentic Cornish pasty. Simple Plan are a pop band, a carefully washed, smoothly ironed, neatly folded pop band, albeit one with the added snarls of gentle teenage rebellion, the slouch of vague disobedience, the cut-off trousers of mild dissatisfaction. This 5-piece Canadian group sell records by the bucketload in America, catering perfectly for those kids that have a desire for angst-ridden fury, but also have inexperienced palates that can’t handle anything too brutal. Many Playlouder readers will have been wandering the streets late at night, disconsolately kicking tin-cans around industrial estates since hearing of the demise of Blink 182. But don’t worry. Simple Plan are in town.

Their punctual appearance on stage is greeted by a roomful of devil’s horn hand gestures from the disaffected middle-class youth, who are sporting crisp t-shirts with slogans such as “Religion: A Bit Annoying” and “Don’t Tell Me What To Do: Oh Alright Then.” The band leap into the first of many punk-lite anthems, complete with those irritating, wide-open vocal harmonies that make every song sound like a theme tune for a distinctly ungritty US teen drama about a well-funded youth club. “Shut Up! Shut Up! Shut Up!” they sing, a withering diatribe against anyone who might try and give them some well-meaning advice about, say, buying a suit. “Get Out, Get Out, Get Out, Get Out Of My Way!” The crowd bellow along, nodding furiously and offering singer Pierre Bouvier their wholehearted support on the issue. At the back of the venue, a line of sorely disappointed dads stand motionless, arms folded. They were probably into Throbbing Gristle when they were 15, and are wondering why on earth their kids can’t appreciate something a little more edgy. It’s certainly bizarre to watch a band ferociously pummel guitars that are virtually inaudible, with the overall volume set so low that a bickering teenage couple a few feet away start to become the focus of my attention. “But Becky…” “Leave me alone.” “But Becky, I…” She’s off. He trails her out of the venue.

Bouvier’s patter between the songs sits somewhere between that of 19th century music hall artiste and 21st century children’s TV presenter, interspersed with sufficient swearing to ensure the kids don’t feel patronised. With such a meek live sound, the word “motherfucker” is the only tool that Bouvier’s got to remind us that we’re not watching Westlife, but from his lips it sounds hilariously benign. “Come on, London! Make some fucking noise!” he requests. I dutifully pull out a shortwave radio I carry especially for moments like this, and turn it on. The game of “Pierre Says” gathers momentum. “I want you to be very quiet.” Obedient silence. “Now I want you to fucking scream!” Some screaming. “Now, I want you all to jump up and down…” What, in time with the music? OK! They kick into “The Worst Day Ever”, a heart-rending tale of leaving a games kit at home, and being forced by Mr Harrison to do long-jump wearing only vest and pants. Rather like Shakin’ Stevens, Simple Plan seem to be striving for an expression and reinforcement of the basic emotions of a 13 year old boy. “We just wanna have fun, we’re not gonna change, I don’t wanna grow up,” they sing, which is all very well; but they’re in a multi-million selling pop band, and those GCSEs aren’t going to pass themselves, are they?

Simple Plan are so hideously contrived that within 10 minutes they lapse into self-parody, and my attention turns back to the far more pressing issue of the bickering couple. Becky has disappeared, and her erstwhile beau is slumped miserably on the stairs while a bouncer repeatedly attempts to move him along. “Don’t worry, motherfucker,” I say to him gently, adopting a dialect that I know he’ll understand. “Get back up there, you fucker, and fucking ROCK.” He dutifully slopes off. Good lad.