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I stopped going to gigs after August 1990, as I joined the Royal Air Force.

Last gig I went to as a civvy was madonna at Wembley, broadcast live on Radio 1, and she swore like a fisherwife.

I am no prude, but wasn't necessary. She danced in her bra. Danced and sang, which suggested some miming. But it was quite a show.

After basic training, we went onto Cosford, and for the next eight months, we knuckled down, drank lots of beer, and I racked up quite an overdraft.

The last weekend at Cosford, or near to it, I had somehow gotten tickets to see Harry Connick Jr. at The Royal Albert Hall. My friend and recruit, Mark, went to London to see the gig on the Sunday night. Mark lived in Swindon, so we decided we would spend the weekend as his parent's pad in one of the identical sprawling estaes, then drive into London on Sunday afternoon.

Which we did. His local pub, the Nine Elms, did lock ins. A lock in is where the pub pretends to close, and the police pretend not to notice.

At eleven, we were drinking, the landlord called last orders. I was told by Mark to "keep on drinking, don't make a scene". The curtains were drawn, and the next round was poured.

We left at three.

Pissed.

Sunday, his Mum cooked Sunday lunch, and at the end all of them put a slice of bread onto their plate to mop up the left over gravy. Did I need a slice? No, I'm not a heathen!

We then drove down to London along the M4 in my rusty Skoda Estelle, parking at some garage on Park Lane.

For a few hours we revelled in the wonder that is the Royal Albert Hall, and Harry's jazz. It was magical.

Once it was over, we walked back to my car, and we drove back to Cosford, getting back at something like three in the morning. We had to be up at six. That day I got screamed at for not paying attention during aircraft staring procedures; I was on for drill, and I was looking a the loco hauled trains on the main line through the base.

I survived and passed the course.

A couple of years later, I got tickets to see Prince at Earl's Court on my then girlfriend's birthday. I had failed to realise the date was her birthday. I have got us tickets for Prince for your birthday I declared.

Hmmmm, she said.

We had the day in London, dinner at an Aberdeen Steakhouse (was crap), then along to the venue, and Prince was dreadful. Happy birthday, love.

Years went by; I got posted to Germany, and saw no gigs.

I got married, divorced, married and divorced again.

I began the new millennium newly single, and thanks to a promotion, richer and die to divorces, happier.

And I was posted back to God's own county, Norfolk. So, season ticket at Carrow Road and free time for gigs.

I had bough Brendan Benson's first album from the West Sahara branch of Tower Records in Vegas whilst on detachment, and had been looking for new material from him for years. Getting online meant finding there was a community of fans, and a new album was in the offing.

Then there was a UK tour.

Only weekend date was in Bristol, so I bought tickets, arranged a hotel. A vegan hotel as it turned out.

And it was the World Cup, and on Saturday, the day of the gig, there was a World Cup match between England and Poland.

So, on the Friday I drove down from Norfolk to Bristol, found a place to park and tried to sleep with the sound of at least one helicopter circling overhead all night. Next morning, I went for a wander, but wit the midday kickoff, I found my way to a pub at half eleven, and settled down. England won big. I mean huge, three or four nil. We toasted the result and the fine summer weather.

No point in going back to the hotel, I stayed out, going from pub to pub, drinking, telling anyone who would listen, and many more who wouldn't, that this musical genius playing in the city. I seem to remember leading a band of about 20 people to the Louisiana, where standing outside, I heard the band warming up, playing songs up to that point i had only heard on CD

It made me so darned happy.

I have little memory of the gig, just me dancing and cheering every new song played, and calling out for my favourites.

I was hung over the next day, but I drove home ready to be back in Norfolk for work the next day.

A few months later, a new tour was announced, and the first gig was in Sheffield

Sheffield is not too far from Norfolk, once you get along the A17, so I said I would go, bought a ticket and would drive up once work had finished for the day.

I waited to get in, and all was going well until the tour manager spied me: "Jelltex!" he shouted. There was no deed for me to pay, I was added to the guest list, and was given a tour pass to get me into every gig the rest of the tour if I wanted.

Seems like I had made quite the impression back in Bristol.

You are coming to Bristol tomorrow, right? Brendan asked.

You have the pass now, see you there.

So it was, I got a short notice leave, and was driving down to Bristol early next morning, ready to bop away back at the Louisiana again.

Last time I saw a gig that tour was in Southend, at Chinnery's on the seafront, where I introduced Brenad to Radio 6 DJ, Phil Jupitus.

I just wanted Brendan to be famous.

I last saw Brendan at a tiny club in Seattle. I was passing through and he was on tour, so I went along.

He recognised me, and had a look of someone being stalked. Oh hello......

I never went again to see him, and my love of his music cooled as I bought less of his music.

Still, for a while, I was a fan boy......