Tim Charlatan saunters on stage, grabs the mic and sneers "Get them fookin' cameras on ME". By now 'The yoof' have surged forward in all their baggy, gawky, geek chic glory and are gazing lovingly up Tim's left nostril. The boy next to me moans, "Don't tell anyone, but I want to shag Tim".
The Charlatans plug themselves in, wind each other up and explode into their technicoloured musical mania. Virgins crumble at the knees, overcome by the rush of alien hormones and I wish I was 16 again. Rob, The Charlatans' secret weapon, hides unobtrusively behind his keyboards, beefing up 'Indian Rope' till it's bursting with chunky chords. Oozing charm and vitality from their pouting vocals right through to the tip of their tambourine, The Charlatans flaunt the elusive 'it'.
The attitudes, the haircuts, the adulation. They trample the flat atmosphere, kicking it back into life, making the floor manager sweat, sending their fans potty. 'The Only One I Know', in all its stupid simplicity, bounces into the crowd and right over the heads of the floor manager, who looks on bemused.
It captures perfectly what makes The Charlatans tick, what makes the audience putty in their hands and what the organisers of the event have failed to comprehend with their artificial surroundings and 'strictly-by-the-book' attitude. If you can't let you hair down once in a while, if you can't understand what all the fuss is about, then don't even try. It's time to kiss your youth goodbye.