No longer will others laugh and point.  Follow these simple rules and seem instantly cooler when you go see a live band.

1. Don’t wear a T-shirt with the band’s name on it.  Wearing T-shirts with a band’s name is acceptable in some circumstances but never at that band’s gig. Just say no.
2. While, ostensibly, the same point, it’s worth elaborating and stating that if you bought your band-name T-shirt at Next or Top Shop or a similar high-street chain and/or, if the band’s name is spelled in sparkly sequins, you shouldn’t even be in the same building as the band.
3. Don’t dress like a member of the band. This is even more unacceptable than a T-shirt with the band’s name (unless it’s sparkly).  There’s a bloke who’s turned up to every Paul Weller gig I’ve ever attended who dresses like Weller and has hair like Weller’s (complete with bangs). He’s probably a very nice person but… you know.
4. Never sing along with the band’s most popular song. You know, that one that all the people who were quiet up to that point are now singing their little heart’s out to.  This has fair-weather fan written all over it.
5. Learn to clap in time.  If you’re going to clap along, hands in the air like you just don’t care, it’s important that you understand how rhythm works.  Try listening to the song, particularly the drums, and try to clap on the beats rather than at self-determined, arbitrary intervals.
6. Don’t hold up your phone so your mate at home can hear the band.  He can’t really hear it and you look like a twat.
7. Don’t spend the entire time texting your mates.  The lights in the audiences laps shouldn’t rival those on stage.  There’ll be time enough for texting when the dealing’s done.
8. Shut up. Pretty much everybody around you paid to hear the band, not to hear you chat with your mate about Big Brother. Zip it!

That’s it. Easy peasy. Now you’re too cool for school.  You’re not just Kool, you’re The Gang too.  You’re so cool you’re hot.

I’m still not going to talk to you at gigs, although I may not nudge my mates so much.

It seems she subscribes to the ‘if I can’t see it right now, it is obviously not happening’ school of… ermm… knowing things.

I’ll keep trying little, sad chickens.  I’ll keep trying Hugh.

I’ve always liked Firmly-Witterstein. I’ve spent much time dreaming of heading off down the country to become self-sufficient, surviving on home-grown hooves and horns, and Jaffa Cakes fresh from the ground. It is a nice dream. Hugh, of course, now seems to run a multi-national empire of restaurants and shops and probably lives in a solid gold house where he has people in hover-packs to deliver MacGiblet burgers and free-range chicken nuggets. Still, River Cottage global domination and Hugh’s predilection for offal aside, I have a lot of time for him. I like his shows a lot and really hope that he manages to change something with his Chicken Run show.

On the chicken-front, personally, I’d be happy to pay the extra for the free-range fellows, but Mrs. Jimmy Page’s Trousers is a chicken-cynic (and more than a little tight) and has constantly poo-pooed the idea. As she tends to do most of the shopping (and I, the cleaning – I’m a twentieth century man), she usually ignores my pleas for happy chicken, preferring instead the cheap (resisted the ‘cheep’ pun, there), sad birds. She seems to be coming around somewhat after sitting through Hugh’s Chicken Run for the last few nights though. Good news, little chickens.

So then, the Save The Chicken bandwagon (or Chicken Out, as Hugh’s calling it) is one that I’m happy to jump on, and encourage all to do likewise. Off you pop to Hugh’s site and sign the petition thing. A small word of warning: Loud things happen on the site, so turn your speakers down first (especially if you’re in work).

The good thing about this Save The Chicken thing, is that, unlike the Save The Whale or the Save The Giant Squid campaigns, we can still get to eat the delicious little chickens. In fact, it means that they’ll be even more delicious – a happy chicken is a tasty chicken. Everyone’s a winner.

I’ve had some. Tasty, scrumptious nectar. Erdinger. Yummy, yummy Erdinger. If the Erdinger people are reading and want to present me with some sort of promotional package, they can reach me at trousers (at) jimmypagestrousers.com. If they’re not though, I and I realise that they have a lot of work to do in making various delicious beers, that’s ok too.

I have to upgrade my digital package, if only to get some decent music channels instead of “Shit Hits For Teenage Girls”.

Chicken liver paté (I know that there’s probably an accent circonflexe over the ‘a’ but I don’t know how to make it appear) is nice on toast.

The channel that is ‘Smash Hits’ isn’t good. It’s currently showing something called R’n'B Party. Not my cup of tea really.

Dido is on another channel though. She’s pretty, and not so pretty that I think I don’t have a chance; just pretty enough. I mean, obviously that David Boreanaz bloke is something of a threat but, realistically, is he really that good looking? And his career’s been pretty shite since Angel tanked so, I reckon I’m in with a good chance. Don’t like her music much though. Nobody’s perfect.

Another beer needed. I put it in the freezer half an hour ago. Nice.

Crap. Now it’s Robbie Williams. Women want him and men want to be him. Yeah, right. Not this man. “Ooooooh, pay attention to me, pay attention. I sometimes get a bit depressed.” Oh for fuck’s sake, Robbie. Welcome to the world you talentless cunt. If I were you, I’d send Guy Chambers a bunch of flowers or a six-pack or something ‘cos you need some help to write something that isn’t in rhyming couplets.

Now, it’s some girl doing a cover of Bryan Adams’ Heaven. I initially baulked at it until I remembered I don’t like the original and realised that this is actually much, much better. Bryan Adams sucks (except for Summer of ‘69 which I like to sing when I’m pissed – come to think of it, I’d like to hear it now). And he’s no sense of humour, although that may be Ryan Adams who’s his brother, or is him, or something.

Flicked over and that shower are doing Lady Marmalade. Aguillera is also pretty but I don’t think I’d have as much of a chance as with Dido (no offence Dido). L’il Kim is contibuting with ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.” She’s very talented.

You know who I hate with all of the bile-producing glands in my body? Sean Kingston. What a pointless, useless, talentless, song-thieving, fat cunt. It’s one thing to sample a bit of someone else’s song (and I’m not that keen on that either) but to just sing some new, shit lyrics over someone else’s (someone with talent you will never have) song. That doesn’t make you musician, you hack, just a cunt. What a chubby-boned wanker.

And Fergie’s shit too. I know I’m not the first, but it does annoy me that she bleats on about London Bridge when she means Tower Bridge. And I’m Irish, for fuck’s sake.

I should probably go to bed. Sleepy now.

Ooooh. Ooooh, wait… Westlife.