So why should I really give a fuck if tonight's headline act have been given the odd push-coming-to-an-almighty-shove as far as pseudo gluts of recognition are concerned?

I suppose The Kooks' somewhat meteoric rise would be irrelevant if everyone operated on a level playing field, but of course they don't. So when Larrikin Love, that most uncontrived of eclectic entities, take the stage they're met with a mixture of nothingness and the odd chav exclaiming, "Spill my drink again and I'll twat you," whilst enclaving his Burberry knight in a forefist engagement of safety and devotion. Or maybe that's the price you pay when the two worlds (and fanbases) of independent and mainstream music collide.

Still, Larrikin Love go on to play an awesome set, which is nothing less than anyone who's seen them before would expect. Consistency personified then, or business as usual.

So onto The Kooks.

It's difficult trying to fathom out the purpose of this band. I mean, we're all aware of the Melua historical triumphs and catastrophes, not to mention the mid-term sentence in Sylvia Young's bootcamp of prodigies and pressure-cookered vegetables of exceptionally expensive taste.

Whilst it has to be said they do possess some irrepressively infectious tunes - 'Eddie's Gun', 'She Moves In Her Own Way' and 'See The World' evoke memorories of such luminaries as Supergrass, The La's and Pulp past and present - there's also a potpourri of filler big enough to land a Chelsea Flower Show award for both scent-filled and mirkiest garden alike.

Y'see, the worrying thing is that everything flows just that little bit too smoothly, and there's hardly any time (or call) for improvisation, which can only lead to one implicit conclusion: that the indie Take That are upon us. Minus the tunes, and Lulu, of course. Sure enough, why should a propensity for pop music be reason to dampen the name of a successful act? Well it wouldn't, if it weren't for the fact that four songs into an hour-and-a-quarter long set I was bored to the point of chewing my own cheek linings and decided that a Subway Italian BMT was a better option than endearing myself to another minute of indie-lite drudgery. And to think that this time last year The Kooks seemed like a viable alternative to all things light and mellow. Oh, how wrong we can all be, sometimes...