Where am I? What am I? How old am I? What year is this? Who is the Prime Minister? What is Ray Langton doing in Coronation Street? Daleks? All these disorientating questions fizzed through my head, last week, as I attended the Doves concert at Manchester Apollo - reviewed elsewhere in Review and by somebody young - and found myself tumbling through a time tunnel in true Dr Who fashion.

This was the hot ticket in Manchester, and immensely enjoyable it was, too, although the trippy haze and swirling rock sound could quite conceivably have been made by The Moody Blues in 1971 ... or Hawkwind, or early Pink Floyd! Or Principle Edwards Magic Theatre.

You won't have heard of the latter band unless, like me, you inadvertently stumbled into the extraordinary tedium of their unfathomable, psuedo-theatrical, cacophonous racket as they performed in support of more successful artists ... artists who would employ some of the more traditional areas of musical entertainment. Like melodies, choruses, lyrics, rhythm and some basic point to it all. They are mentioned here because, as I swam beneath the psychedelic lights of Doves, I couldn't stop myself from flashing back to that Principal Edwards Magic Theatre Show. An experience that, I remember telling my maths teacher later in the year, completely destroyed any lingering hopes I harboured of passing an 'O' level in that particular subject.

As an excuse for my inability to understand even the most basic concepts of maths - like, what on earth are Logarithms and what use will they be to me during the course of my life? It didn't really carry much weight, to be honest. Still, the "..I blame it on the Principal Edwards Magic Theatre set, sir" approach did, I felt, have a touch of originality about it. Although, thinking about it 30 years later, the set produced by that band on that occasion was actually a pretty accurate portent for a future that would, increasingly, make absolutely no sense to me. The Doves gig did make a bit of sense but only in the fact that it seemed to signify, at least to me, just how utterly disorientating everything has become. Hence the disjointed and, frankly, nonsensical nature of this weeks column. Are you still with me?

Incidentally, on two occasions this week I have been informed, and in a somewhat sarcastic tone if I may say so, that last week's column contained absolutely no namedrops whatsoever. I duly apologise for this and will make amends by referring you, once again, back to the Principal Edwards gig, which took place at Stockport College in 1971. I believe I must have been 14 and far too young to be exposed to such a horrific display of prog rock, but I hasten to add that they were performing in support of Elton John. Now, I didn't actually manage to speak to Elton John, who was just one hit old at the time, but something extraordinary did occur and it is something that has remained engrained on my memory for an awful long time. In defence of Reginald Dwight, I have to say that absolutely nothing untoward occurred and he behaved with impeccable courtesy towards me. It can't have been easy for him. As he stood there, at the urinal, attempting to ignore the star-struck 14-year-old who stood next to him ... mouth agape in sheer awe upon the realisation that pop stars also had to go to urinals. He was dressed in a blue silk cape with yellow trousers covered in stars (Elton John that is ... not me). Some kind of word of recognition slipped out of my mouth and, I fear, I wasn't fully concentrating on the task at hand, much to the detriment of my Doc Martins. Elton John smiled and hurried away, leaving me to bask in the glory of it all. I wonder if he ever thinks of that moment, as I often do.

Now that I have burdened you with what is, I fear, one of the weakest, most dubious, not to mention, tasteless namedrops ever committed to print, I shall return to the dull theory that the whole of music culture, if not the whole of culture and, indeed the whole of everything is little more than a disorientated cyclical swirl of pyschedelia. The upside of this is that, if you find yourself in a period where you find that you can relate to absolutely nothing you see or hear, as in watching any recent Top of the Pops, then just relax for a while, and something more familiar will come around again. So don't fear, when faced with a programme featuring six acts consisting of overweight rappers in basketball tops and two dancing blondes, soon you will be soothed by the return of bands comprising of Wrexham bricklayers daubed in rouge and eyeliner. Can't wait.