The first gig I went to was Pulp at Wembley Arena. It was 1996 and I was 14. We sat at the back, high on life, lager and screamed every lyric to A Different Class. We wore velvet blazers rummaged from local charity shops, with nails blued by Barry M varnish from Camden Market.
Afterwards, we headed back to the suburbs, to lie in bed listening to the music which documented our lives on the brink of adulthood, at the edge of the city, with everything a bit star-shaped.
