I have always adored Jarvis Cocker. The long slog that he endured before anyone would take any notice of Pulp. Those lyrics that were so redolent of anything that might have gone awry in an immature life. The Hillman Imp that he pretended to drive even though he couldn’t actually bend his lanky frame into the seat.

Those impish world view snatches, dry as dust, that could only have come from somewhere like Sheffield. That wiggling of his bottom in the direction of Michael Jackson, when that questionable character tried to re-invent himself as the Messiah at the Brits.

So tonight, he has turned up in my back yard in Shepherds Bush and it would be churlish not to trot along and allow him to say hello to me and my neighbourhood. This he does with a good grace. None of that yelling, “It’s good to be here, Las Vegas!”

Jarvis knows exactly where he is. If he mentions the new Westfield shopping centre once, then he mentions it a dozen times.

Personally, I didn’t come here tonight to be reminded of the local shopping centre, but I adore Jarvis, so let’s let that one go.

His new music is utterly terrific. It sounds as if he has spent the past year listening to Nuggets, the great Lenny Kaye compilation of American Sixties proto-punk rock music.

I couldn’t begin to tell you the song titles because the new LP has not been released yet. All I can tell you to do — if you like blazing and scuzzy guitars — is buy the new record, because if it sounds anything like tonight’s show, it will knock your socks off.

One last thing, Jarvis. I don’t like the new Westfield Centre either. Next time you’ve got a speech to make about the iniquities of mindless shopping, make it somewhere else. You do, after all, live in Paris.