I’m sitting on my own, it’s 2021. The lights are falling like snowflakes over the stage. I see it all through an iPhone 12 filter, as the woman in front lets out an excited squeal, her cheeks decorated with cheap golden glitter. There are no holes in my recollections, time has stopped and is perfectly frozen. 

This is a Manic Street Preachers gig—my first, in fact—and immediately it’s clear what this band is about. Queuing outside the venue to have our Covid passports checked, we are an eclectic bunch. But that is half the fun: it doesn’t matter how old you are, or how new you are to the fanbase, you’re sure to be welcomed with a warm embrace. 

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