Born to amble.

I was having breakfast with Jane in a cafe this morning when she asked whether I wanted to see a concert in November. The Whitlams at the Tivoli.

We saw the Whitlams in a pub in Newcastle maybe 25 years ago, and I was kind of surprised they were still going. (But not as surprised as I was when I found out The Stranglers were touring next week. I thought those guys were dead.)

Anyway, like an idiot, I thought, yeah, a concert, that’d be cool. And then a moment later, like a wise man, I thought, “Oh no, I wonder how long it is, and whether it’s gonna start late, and will there be toilet breaks, and what if I can’t sit down in a nice lounge chair, preferably a recliner, so that I don't get a bit tired by the end of the night, or perhaps, let's be honest, within five minutes of the whole thing starting.

As it turns out, there was seating on offer, but it had all been booked out. Standing room only was all they had left. I had to wonder what sort of a band even offers standing room to an audience they first put together a quarter of a century ago. This isn't a knock on the Whitlams, obviously. A gig’s a gig. It's more of a knock on me.

When I used to write features for Rolling Stone, I got a lot of free concert tickets, partly because I was dating the advertising manager for the magazine back in those days, and she went to everything. But a bit like my sportswriting days, where I could enjoy the cricket in the air-conditioned, full buffet luxury of the press room—well, I guess it sort of ruined me for experiencing these things like a normal person.

But honestly, don’t normal people get tired of standing up at concerts after the age of 50, or 40, or - real talk now, 25?