I spent Wednesday evening this week watching The Everley Brothers at the Hammersmith Apollo, which has been renamed the Carling Apollo in tribute to that bestselling weak lager, Carling Black Label, which they sell in the venue for a very reasonable £16.50 a pint. This outing was a birthday treat for my father, who fondly remembered the song “Wake Up Little Susie” from when he was a teenager. Fortunately, The Everley Brothers also remembered the song “Wake Up Little Susie” from when they were teenagers, and gave a pretty much fautless performance.

I can’t extend my compliments to the Carling Apollo, however. For a start, the ticket price – already a wallet busting 50 quid per person – was inflated by 4 pounds 95 pence per ticket for a disconcertingly vague “service charge”, before being increased yet further for the privilege of actually having the tickets posted out to me. I booked the tickets via the internet, and at no point did any human assist me with my purchase. So, to take 3 people on a birthday treat to see the Everley Brothers ended up costing a not-inconsiderable £166.80, and that’s before food and transport have been taken into account, My father, already bristling at the cost of being entertained in the 21st century, refused the offer of a taxi home, recalling how he had spent the Saturday nights of his youth at Barrow In Furness Hippodrome. “Pie & chips beforehand, music, dancing, and bus fare home for less than a shilling,” he said. “You have to remember,” I replied, recalling my A Level Economics textbook, “that low levels of inflation are beneficial to the economy, greasing the wheels of commerce. Price stability can be very destructive,” I added, wisely. “Shut up,” he replied.

I’ve also got a problem with the Carling Apollo’s ticketing system. These £50 seats placed us in the Circle of the venue, up in the gods and within squinting distance of the stage. About 10 minutes before the show started the Circle had approximately 800 empty seats, with about 200 people packed in tightly right at the back – including us – about as far away from the stage as possible. “This is bloody ridiculous,” said my dad, who, in case you hadn’t twigged from my pathetic accent, is from Lancashire, and in case you don’t have a tape measure, is 6’6” tall. This is a man who needs to stretch out, not be bound in on all sides by people munching on Werthers Originals and complaining about being such a long way from the action. At this point, a slim blonde lady walked up the aisle, towards an elderly couple sitting in front of us. “Excuse me,” she said, “I think you’re sitting in our seats.” Behind her were empty seats, stretching as far as the eye could see. I started giggling. “Yes,” she continued, “we’re in W46 and W47, right here.” The elderly couple started gathering their things together. “For god’s sake,” I said in a rare moment of public confrontation. “There are nearly a thousand better seats to choose from – why on earth do you want to sit here?” She sheepishly walked away, and sat in a row all to herself, while we sat there, wedged together. “This is bloody ridiculous,” said my dad again, and got up. We followed him down to row D, where we spread out and lounged around as if we were in our own living room. As the lights went down and Don & Phil strode onstage, we looked behind us. Everyone was still sitting on their specially assigned seats. They didn’t dare move. But slowly, they began to take courage, and by the end of the performance, we were all spaced evenly around the auditorium in a perfect example of Brownian motion. So the moral of this story, if there is one, is that if you do end up going to a concert at the Carling Apollo, remember that they fill the venue from the back, to the front. So try and wait until the very last minute before buying your ticket.