The year is 2004 and I’m standing in my bedroom holding in both hands a thin, plastic square: it’s the new Libertines album. I can barely contain myself. We love this band, so much so in fact that we trail round London, hanging around places they’re known to haunt and making a nuisance of ourselves. We speak about them in lurid, intricate metaphors. We feel we know them intimately. We buy enormous, multi-coloured posters – ‘PETE DOHERTY IS INNOCENT’ – despite the fact that we have no idea whether Pete Doherty is innocent or not, or what he’s been accused of. We spot Carl Barât, the co-lead, near Oxford Circus, and follow him for two hours before he stops outside Starbucks and we, pouncing, make him sign our children’s day travelcards. He drops his cigarette and we pounce on that too. We split it between us and vow never to tell another living soul. Jesus.