A good gig review should, I think, make you feel like you were actually there even if you weren’t lucky enough to be.

So stick on a The Kills or Horrors album (2nd or 3rd LPs only, they didn’t bother playing any songs from the 1st) and feast your eyes on the picture above for a few minutes, before imagining turning 180 degrees to look at stage a mile in the distance.

Then imagine getting pushed out of the way. Over and over and over again.

Never before have so many men pushed, pulled and dry humped their way past others. If I get bruises at a gig normally it’s because I’ve been jumping about down the front (not too common these days, unfortunately), but at the Warehouse Project that night it was because I’d been barged in the back too many times purely for the crime of wanting to stand and watch some bands.

I did learn something useful that night though: should a woman wander into the men’s toilets she can simply hold a can of £3.80 Budweiser in the air and shout “Sorry! Thought this was the ladies!” and completely ignore the ridiculous sight of men stood facing each other around plastic buckets masquerading as urinals while their silly, flaccid cocks spray merrily away.