I’m going to see Thunder tomorrow. WHO? Yeah, Thunder. You’ve never heard of them because you either weren’t listening to much beyond lullabies in the 80s or you were a geography teacher at the time. Or you have crap taste in music.

I can’t wait. They’re anthemic, their ballads are heart-crushing, their range and power (even in old age) would blow your socks out the window. I’ve been listening to Thunder since Phil and I got together and they’ve been played hundreds of times at all-nights of mayhem ’round our flat.

We’re going up early to visit Hoxton Street Monster Shop, then we’ll check in to our hotel and go for dinner. Few drinks later, we’ll pop along to Wembley Arena and get stuck in to a couple of hours of pure rock joy.

We’ll amble back (unhurried by transport and unruffled by stress fights) through the cold night, hearts warmed by rock and bodies warmed by beer. Maybe we’ll hit a bar, maybe we’ll get a Subway and eat it in bed. For one night, we’ll be kids who can afford adult comforts.

21-year-old me says yeaaahhhhh.