London Hammersmith Odeon

I ARRIVED late.

Cheekily, Duran Duran had started their set without me. I was ushered to my seat and flopped down my weary frame.

Inside Hammy Odious, the strictly enforced order of the day is for the security operatives to forcibly relocate any limb which dares to stray a few inches into the forbidden territory of the aisle. The result is hundreds of people standing dutifully in front of their allocated seats performing a rooted to the-spot kind of jig. Arms flail and torsos twitch but always slightly out of tempo.

Being keen on accurate recordings of first impressions, I bowed my head in a bout of copious note taking. When I finally glanced up, my first view of a Duran Duran gig was the backs of two girls in the row immediately in front of mine. One had red trousers and stubbed out her chewing gum on the bottom of her seat; her companion proudly wore a cycling proficiency patch sewn onto the sleeve of her jacket.

As a song finishes there is shrieking from the young throats near the stage and generous applause from everywhere. I glance around at the jerking punters and am surprised to see other grown ups! Even grown men with beards, shaking their beerguts and Firkin Ale t-shirts.

Two rows ahead of me, a gang of such specimens link arms and sway from side to side. The women at the end of the row stoically refuses to rise from her seat and join in. She glances disdainfully at her acquaintances, embarrassed by their antics and doubtless mindful of how infantile and ridiculous they look.

I continue to stare at the backs of assorted punters and wonder whether I should actually stand up and peer at the onstage spectacle.

Not yet. I fantasise for a while. Remembering that frightful video, I imagine a small herd of trained elephants, their naturally-wrinkled flesh having been smoothed out after a strenuous routine of scrubbing and talcum powdering at the animal beauticians, up on stage stamping out the beat in perfect time.

I also picture a specially-imported for the tour ageing Sri Lankan gentleman, wandering around bemused and uncertain in his role as Token Native/Ethnic Link. Meanwhile, more screams ring out as Simon Le Bon hoists a set of fake bar bells above his head.

I find the passivity of the youthful section of this audience painful. When I was their age, I was heroically ripping seats out of the Rainbow and spitting at policemen. Twenty years earlier, my father took his flick knife and slashed every seat in Billericay Odeon during a showing of Rock Around The Clock. But the pop kids of '82 ... bah!

And they have such low standards. When I eventually perched my arse on an armrest and peeked, I saw that Simon Le Bon was nothing special. Those of you who read and memorised my incisive and elegant study of Annabella Lwin can apply the same points.

The bum, er, Bon boy is a tacky, dull amalgam of sanitised, as seen on TV, pop stars. Le Bon has no class. He looks like he belongs behind the counter in a Birmingham chip shop. His 'personality' is deep fried arrogance topped with a vinegary stain of conceit.

“You're a bunch of dummies”, he yelled at the crowd with impressive perception. For a few of us (dotted around with stern faces), the feeling was mutual.

I left early.