Last week I headed over to London to catch an afternoon gig my favourite singer was putting on.

Tickets were being sold on the door at 2pm and it was strictly a first come, first serve basis so there were no guarantees for anyone that they’d get in.

Arriving at Paddington alone, I met up with a friend I often bumped into at gigs and we decided to head into Camden together to get in line early.

By 2pm we’d been in line for just under two hours and, with drinks being shared in the large group forming around us, we were already starting to feel quite light-headed.

We wondered what the atmosphere would be like. We’d all heard bad things about the type of punters the Blues Kitchen gets and how wound up a lot of them become during gigs thanks to its small and cramped space next to the stage.

Nevertheless, our waiting paid off. We bought our tickets, our hands were stamped and we ran straight to the front of the stage.

And there we waited, in eager anticipation, for the next hour and a half.

Finally, the man of the moment arrived and the Freedom gig began.

For those not in the know, this was the first gig Pete would be performing at since his release from prison a few days earlier. He’d been flooded with letters, cards and presents during the previous six weeks and, now, this was our reward for our non-stop devotion to his music and not giving a shit what personal problems he continued to face.

Though he got off to a slow start, we were happy to see him looking well. He mumbled his way through the first few songs before admitting he wasn’t expecting such a large and, er, boisterous (some girl screaming, ‘Show us your cock!’) crowd and was a little overwhelmed.

Then the fights started.

Up until that point, I’d been standing front and centre in the crowd. Everyone standing to the right of me were just like a normal gig crowd: rowdy, pushy, loud, a little crazy. Everyone standing to the left? Ergh. Lots and lots of big lads – Some who’d hook their arm around my neck and (un)intentionally choke me during certain songs while jumping up and down. They were loud and violent and a couple of them jumped the barriers and launched themselves onto the stage.

This isn’t an unusual thing at gigs. Particularly Peter’s gigs. He’s not somebody to ever tell a fan to get away from him. In fact, when crowds of a hundred rush the stage, he hardly seems fazed.

But the security at the Blues Kitchen were so tightly wound that a full stage fight started and the barrier hoppers ended up getting a few punches in the face and literally carried out. (As well as a majorly annoying girl who would not GET THE FUCK OFF the stage for the first half hour. Her removal was greeted with cheers.)

After that, Peter seemed to find his feet and the gig was, once again, underway.

Singing songs from The Libertines, Babyshambles, his own solo stuff and even a few new ones, he gave us the opportunity to lose ourselves in the music once again. To forget we were in an ever-sinking Albion and, instead, sailing the seas in search of Arcadia.

I almost cried knowing that I had this opportunity to see him perform one last time before I leave in November. I love music but it’s rare that I find a contemporary singer, lyricist, poet that can touch my heart and make me feel so many things with just one song.

And then the bad thing happened …

After the stage fight, security had decided to insert even bigger sticks up their arses and would not leave the stage. After every song, Pete would turn to them to ask them how long he had left.

Finally, as the crowd roared on and, probably, intimidated the f*ck out of them, they told him to kill it.

Pete did not look amused.

His retaliation/tantrum?

He threw the guitar he’d been playing (belonging to the Blues Kitchen) and the microphone stand into the crowd.

And where did that large metal microphone stand land?

Right on top of my head.

And then it went black.

Yeah. Thanks, Peter.

It was only a few seconds but when I came to, my head was throbbing and the majority of the crowd were either attempting to sneak past security with the guitar and microphone stand or jumping onto the stage for ‘Pete souvenirs’.

It wasn’t all death and taxes though.

After downing a few more Jack Daniels outside, a very large group of us decided to do the fangirl thing and wait around for Peter to leave (knowing full well he’d have to go to his house (situated just down the road) at some point).

When he did come out there was a rush of hugs, kisses, photos, phones and cameras being thrust around, pushing, shoving and general craziness.

The closest I got to him?

Well, I’ve never been one to approach famous people. I hate doing it. I see them as normal human beings and have absolutely no idea what to say other than something dumb and fangirly like “ZOMGIREALLYLIKEYOURMUSICKISSME!”

And after finding myself amongst the catastrophic cattle market approach a certain wild-haired comedian took to his fans a couple of years ago, I can’t say meeting people I’d respected had gone all that well in the past.

It must have been the litres of Jack Daniels on an empty stomach (as well as the nagging from my friend and the bump on my head) that convinved me to abandon all this though and, instead, jump in front of traffic on this fine Saturday afternoon to run across a busy Camden street to get to my favourite singer.

I’m glad I did though because I got smooshed into the crowd and ended up pressed up against his back as he navigated his way down the street amidst a sea of fans.

That’s right.

I was too late for a hug. I was too late for a kiss. But I pressed my boobs against him.

Now how many fans can say they’ve done that?