If I had $1,000,000... you know what I’d do? Well I’d probably buy a house. Get myself on the property market... yeah, a house! That’d be a good idea. I would buy myself a house! I wouldn’t spend all the money on the house of course, I’d have to get some furniture as well...I’d by some furniture for my house. Perhaps a nice Chesterfield... or an Ottoman! I don’t even know what that is, but I know I want one! Hmmm, what else would I get myself? A fur coat you suggest? Well sure... Obviously a fur coat, that goes without saying! I can’t even start to think about bumbling (that’s what I do when I’m at home... ‘bumble’) around my lovely new house, using, playing with, standing/sitting on/next to (delete as applicable, whatever it is) my sexy new Chesterfield without a bloody fur coat, although not literally ‘bloody’ I think it’s worth mentioning – that’s cruel. They’re generally pretty expensive aren’t they though... houses. I mean I know I’ve one million squiddles in the bank and everything, but you know... it’s a volatile world out there, and London’s a pricey place to make that sort of purchase. I’d go outside London then... and drive in. Have to save some of the money to get myself a nice reliable automobile. Nothing special, just big enough to fit little old me, and whatever bits of old furniture and exotic pets I might feel like buying and filling my huge country house with. It’s pretty lonely in the country isn’t it? No neighbours for hours... no Primark... no Subway, CHRIST! I’ll be bored out of my tiny rich mind! I should get myself a hobby. How about transvestitism? I reckon I could polish off the rest of my riches on a lovely new dress... Green (brings out my eyes). Not a real green dress of course, Christ no, that’d be cruel. Actually, you know what? I’m not so sure I’d like to have $1,000,000 anymore, it does sound awfully complicated.

By now of course, you’ll be fully aware of the reason I’m rambling on like that man who stands outside the Post Office at 7am, shouting at dust. I’ve been to see a live performance from our good friends the Barenaked Ladies. It’s not a selective group I’m not ashamed to admit, they’ve been touring for 22 long years as they’ll have told you themselves if you’ve seen them play (this year), but all those years don’t seem to have altered their hunger and enjoyment of playing live music, of putting on a show, and generally giving people a good time. Disregarding festivals, this is the biggest gig (most expensive ticket price, most popular, or more importantly the biggest production) I’ve been to. In the gig scale, running from the local band, playing solely to the ‘Hard to impress 15:00-17:00 Tuesday night crowd’ at that windowless basement boozer down the road; the latest and therefore greatest, tweenie-favourite American high school band, doing their homework after playing their gig at a Student Union; the big, international touring, well-seasoned rock band; and the huge theatre-like production budgeted, talentless hack using big lights, explosions, costume changes and sexy backing dancers to avoid easy recognition of the fact that they only won X-Factor 3 months previous. Bare Naked Ladies are the well-seasoned rockers for sure. The only costume change is to change one dripping wet shirt, with another equally as sweaty in 30 seconds. But they still manage to put on a show.

BNL’s latest touring show starts out with a little story of a local boy assuming frontman Ed is a criminal, before bleeding into a strange rap of someone’s Dad might try at his 15 year-old daughter’s birthday party. From here, a couple of old favourites and some clapping and everyone’s in the mood. Shoulders slowly start to sway from side to side, arms might even get raised, and some melon starts a slow clap. But no – too soon. They pull the “This one’s from our new album!” bullshit. What? New. Album? What are you talking about? Just play $1,000,000 so we can all go home yeah? It’s a work night! But they don’t.

We get the ‘new album’ cold shoulder for about 5 songs or so, and you start to feel embarrassed, everyone just looks a bit bored. ‘But wait! We can play some old stuff’ they scream as people start to figuratively wander away... “This song we wrote for a TV show.” And the place erupts again! *BANG* They bring out that one from The Big Bang Theory, then *BANG BANG* One Week, closely followed by Pinch Me, and suddenly everyone’s jigging about again, singing along, Jim (bass player) starts strutting about the stage, thinking he’s Mick Jagger, looking like a gay dinosaur wearing his Mum’s high heels.

Once everyone’s back on their side and they’ve played some well-known favourites, the good show’s in the bank, people will go home having had a good time, they can try out the more experimental stuff. The piano guy (Kevin) sings a song, suddenly the other three are backing singers! Then all of a sudden they’re the Backstreet Boys, pulling out the simplest, ‘20 minutes worth of a dance lesson moves’ anyone apart from the skinniest, whitest, skinny white guy would be able to pull off in the womb. Then... before you know what’s happening, the bloody drummer comes out of his symbol encrusted cave and raises the microphone to his jangling chops... “Oh my God!” you chuckle. “The fat drummer’s gonna give singing a go! Go on lad!” But no... turns out, he doesn’t sound like Peter Kay playing Singstar. He belts out the Empire State of Mind chorus (“In New Yooo-ooorrrrrrr-rrrrk”) like he’s been touring Working Men’s Clubs for 40 years and now he’s come on Britain’s Got Talent with nothing but his voice and a sob story in his pocket ready to fight for his last chance of fame.

Then, just as suddenly as everything else... it’s all over. The lights come up, and everyone turns round, stumbling down to the tube, loudly discussing their favourite songs with ringing ears. And I hear one guy ask another, “Who was that, some Canadian band? They were alright actually.”