Ageing is a wretched bedfellow. Simple tasks, undertaken scores of times become onerous and cumbersome as we move from freedom and fluidity toward bureaucracy and rule adherence.

During my recent half-century celebrations, my wife gifted me, an Oasis fan, a pair of tickets to watch the chief, Noel, perform on Brighton Beach, which is where we found ourselves recently.

Now in days past, the pre-gig rigmarole would have been how to secrete banned items on our person in order to evade security and maximise the fun factor. This has been replaced with the scouring of the ticket T’s and Cs with a fine online tooth comb so as not to poke the ire of overzealous security guards on minimum wage who, taking a break from infrequent lectures at the local tech, don a fluorescent jacket and are under the misconception they are now members of Mossad.

Booking for a concert on the beach for the last day in July seemed like a great idea back in March when the tickets were on general release. The day itself, as well as the week and month, seemed to be a washout and even though the wind blew a gale nearly knocking us off our feet, spirits were high despite parking in the ‘local’ hotel car park which was as local to the hotel as Paris is to Rome. After self-check in (when will companies learn that all us customers want is a little service and not enforced labour?) it was time for a lie down. After two minutes, with the wife asleep and my doubting we would ever venture out into the rain to see Noel, I did the prerequisite hotel room inspection. The view was of a wall of windows akin to booking an Air BnB opposite Strangeways and, attempting to open the window for a sneaky vape proved fruitless as bob the bodgit had screwed the windows shut to save customers from a nasty four-foot fall should they overreach drunkenly through the gap that Houdini would have struggled to slip through.

Standing in the rain on Brighton seafront 90 minutes later, with drizzle on our faces and a force ten gale around us woke us from our kid-free senses. It was surprising to see the age ranges: Everyone there seemed to be under 25 or over 50, with very few in the middle. After being barked out by a teenage security guard as I dared to have a mouthful of water left in my ‘permitted’ empty water bottle, we made our way to the well managed bar which was not busy: not surprising, as they charged eight quid a pint. Within minutes we had encamped on a throuplets picnic table and had a blast as the beer flowed and we discussed canal boats, hush puppies and beards, before realising that we would have to battle our way toward the front once Noel hit the stage, as one of the speakers had blown and you could barely hear a muffle from the back of the makeshift, pebble ground arena.

Despite smashing my credit card to bits on the beer, I smiled as we watched Gallagher senior run through some High-Flying birds songs, ably assisted by two members of Oasis, before, halfway through, doing what everyone in attendance was there for: To smash out a series of Oasis bangers. Despite having a reputation as being somewhat gnarly with his audiences, he was on good form, effing and jeffing with the punters with frequent references to Manchester City, as the crowd morphed into a 6500 strong choir who didn’t look back in anger.

Having now completed the triple set of seeing Oasis (in Milton Keynes), Liam (at Knebworth) and now No-el, I felt as if, strangely, I had achieved a full house as the wind and rain abated and we made our way out into the Brighton night.

That said, as with Glastonbury, it is a lot cheaper, and you get to see and hear more, from the comfort of your own home, so concerts now will become even more infrequent. That is, unless Oasis finally decide to reform, which seems more of a possibility now than it ever has been since the split, as their legacy will remain unfulfilled unless they have their Shea stadium moment, irrespective of the sibling rivalry and nuclear fallout that is bound to follow r’kid….