In which I realise I should basically just stay at home all the time

Last week I was forced to address my increasing intolerance of anyone who is not a member of my immediate family or one of my close friends, particularly when those people surround me in a confined space. It is all part of my accelerating slalom towards middle-aged cantankery.

I went to see Fleet Foxes at the Camden Roundhouse. They were very good. They arrived in North London garlanded in not just a lot of facial hair, but also all manner of album-of-the-year plaudits. Consequently, it was very busy. The Roundhouse was full of beards, glasses, people who looked like they could do with three weeks in a tropical climate, woman in clothes that I either own or have tried on in a variety of high-street stores and rejected as being too me. Basically, these were my people. But still I wanted to kill most of them. 

This was on account of their committing against me a number of crimes of my own designation. The first is standing too closely in front of me, so I have to spend the evening leaning back at an angle of 30 degrees. I understand we all have to share an inadequate space, but still, back off. Or, in fact, forward off. Worse still is when I have become slightly warm and flustered through idiot proximity, and a woman (or a man, I am an equal opportunities fascist) with long hair that she simply must toss around three times a minute, flicks her ill-conditioned hair so it sticks to my bare arm. There are no words poisonous enough to describe how I hate this. Were it not for the fact that I get claustrophobic in a polo neck, this alone would make me want to go everywhere in some kind of spacesuit, or alternatively live in a bubble, like the man in Northern Exposure who was played by Dr Greene from ER.

I will gloss over the low-level chatting during quiet moments, and the couple who must always stand in front of me in a permanent lip-locked embrace, bending their blissful heads together in a way that utterly blocks my view. Let's move on to the distracting light show happening all around me, created by people attempting to take pictures on their mobile phones – pictures that any idiot can see (particularly the idiots in the 10 rows behind them who are having their view obscured) are going to be shit. 

Were I not consumed with paralysing emotional repression, I would be screeching over the hapless photographer's shoulder, 'YEAH, AS IF THAT'S GOING TO WORK!' 

And also 'DO YOU REALLY THINK THAT IS GOING TO MEAN ANYTHING TO YOU IN SIX MONTHS' TIME? LOOK AT IT! IT'S JUST A LOAD OF USELESS BLOBS.'

I've been there myself, or course. I have boxes and boxes of blurry photos, featuring tiny collections of pixels who may or not be The White Stripes at Brixton Academy. Or Eminem at the Carling Weekend in Leeds – who, for all I can prove now, could be anyone dressed in white with short blonde hair. Andrew Flintoff, Anthea Turner... 

And look, here's Take That at the Milton Keynes Bowl on a glorious summer's evening. Probably.

You see? Useless. Don't bother. Just stop.

Really, if everyone could just do what I wanted all the time, I think the world would get along famously.