From the rubble to the ritz

So Arctic Monkeys, eh? I can't help but feel a real sense of pride and "m'boys, m'boys" paternalism whenever I see them. Two years ago, me, Dave W and Mad Steve checked them out at Hull's Silhouette Club, an impossible bizarre cod-futurist venue which has since closed. Even then, they inspired dewey-eyed devotion and a crowd that had learnt lines off demos circulating throughout the land. In September 2005, we saw them at Blank Canvas in Leeds, underneath the Arches, where the band sat unfazed on a tatty sofa behind the stage, just a week before I Bet You Look On The Dancefloor stormed to number one. By February, they were at the Ice Arena, where they attracted a bit of a nasty "we are 'Ull" crowd but still shone. And now, Glastobury. Headliners. Friday night. With added muscle, a bass player who looks like he doesn't know where he is rather than just not wanting to be there (Andy Nicholson) and a lovely crowd manner "thankyou, ladies and gentel-munn" says Alex, repeatedly. I just feel my chest swelling for them. Unlike Kasabian. They can handle themselves, what with all that mariarchi weirdness and Midlands devotional nonsense.