The Fall

You could roll him out on a wheelchair in 20 years time and he'd fit the part even better with his slurring vocal style that's closer to mumbling.

He doesn't sing the lyrics as such, he delivers them. They're so personal in character it's no surprise that it's just Smith who survives as the group's only original member.

Polite acquaintances have described him as "difficult," while not so polite ones have called him the c-word - perhaps that's another reason.

The cavernous Coronet is not such a suitable venue for The Fall's sound, which is more suited to a garage. 

But then the group have gone way beyond that old garage with three fans to stardom with thousands of them, so in accommodating the party faithful the venue fitted the bill.

Frustratingly the group made fans wait until 9.45pm before they finally came onstage and it was even more frustrating in that it meant their set was curtailed somewhat, lasting a little over an hour.

To top matters, an extortionate fiver for a can of pissy lager - and a no re-entry policy - was, for want of a more abusive word, bullshit.

Smith spent most of the evening shouting his trademark drawl down two handheld microphones, while his much younger band were left with the responsibility of creating something that more resembled the tune itself.

At one point our beloved frontman dropped one of his two mics - it's unclear whether intentionally - right on to the head of a security guard down at the front of stage, provoking a brief if-looks-could-kill from the latter.

The encore was probably more impressive than the entire set. Storming back to perform White Lightning, one of The Fall's greatest tracks, Mr Smith yet again dropped one of his mics.

This time an over-zealous fan grabbed it and started shouting the lyrics in a moronic fashion along with Smith, on occasion drowning him out.

It was clear that the security guard he bopped earlier wasn't going to intervene - what goes around comes around.

But if you told him that he'd probably tell you to fuck off.