There comes a time in every young critic’s life when he realises he will never see Dylan go electric, Bowie’s last appearance as Ziggy Stardust, or, indeed, Michael Jackson play the O2. So when it happened that I was offered a ticket to see Oasis (a band about whom I’ve always been pretty ambivalent) at Wembley (a venue I’ve always tried to avoid), I figured I’d better take it. Y’know, in case my kids ever asked.

The last night of Oasis’s 2009 British tour turned out to be exactly what it said on the ticket – no less and certainly no more. Bad haircuts were in the ascendant. Many fans wore much Adidas. Noel was small and pretty nifty on the guitar. Liam was tall and sang like a monkey being given electroshock (see picture).

It was good, in as much as the Gallaghers didn’t tell the punters to f**k off every five minutes, there were some pretty neat ‘live’ graphics (watching LG dissolve in flames was a personal high point), and, for the most part, Oasis played the songs for which Oasis are famous.

They focused on Definitely Maybe and What’s the Story . . . which was great, because, well, those were great albums. And then there were some of the newer songs that no one knows (including me: a little bird told me I couldn’t take notes and, as she’d paid for the tickets, I took note). Folks took these opportunities to pop out and join the queue for the cash-point (1), and then the queue for the bar (10), and then the queue for the toilet (2,918). One serious artistic niggle, though. The big-screen graphics (I’m taking their word for it that Oasis were actually present) were largely a pastiche of Yellow Submarine; the bassist, I swear, had been styled to look like John Lennon; and we walked out to the tune of I Am The Walrus. After nearly two decades as stadium headliners, it’s time Oasis had the confidence to find a new support act.