FOR as far back as I can remember, I have always been out of step with whatever is ‘hot’, ‘wicked’ and ‘phat’ on the music scene.

I mean, consider this: in the early eighties, I was in Soho, London, sitting in a pub that was clearly home to many of the city’s hardest thugs, criminals and bikers.

But somehow, I just didn’t see this. Instead, I was looking at my A to Z of London and wondering how to get to London Bridge. There was a jukebox in the bar but playing so loudly, I couldn’t tell what was playing - it was just blaring, ear-splitting and intense.

So I got up, went over to the jukebox, found a track I really liked, and slid in my 10p. As the previous song finished (‘Yeah, I need a woman of STEEEEEEEEEEL...’), and I made my way back to my table, there was a brief silence before the first orchestral wave of violins poured out of the beer-and-spit-stained speakers like soft caramel over broken glass.

‘Deeeee dee de de de de de duh, Deeeee dee de de de de de dah’ and... well, as I hummed merrily along, I didn’t realise the effect this soaring melody was having on my fellow drinkers.

I thought E.T. was a great film and the theme from it, by John Williams, a much-loved favourite.

Naturally, I also had ‘cretin’ tattooed on my forehead at this period in my life, because it was a good quarter of the way through its running time before I heard the riot of protest erupt around me.

“Who the **** put this on?” hollered one of the more eloquent meatheads, while his less-educated trolls just made a beeline for the small, white-faced, pudding-bowl haired geek who was nursing his half of bitter in the corner.

“Are you a ********* t*****t?” they screamed at me. Yet, before I’d had chance to explain, calmly and concisely, that it had won an Oscar, they’d pushed over my table, made a grab for my neck, and then chased me out the pub.

I recalled this story on Friday when I went to my first gig. Now clearly, attending a Beatles tribute band at the New Theatre in Oxford hardly qualifies as a ‘gig’, but, nevertheless, for someone aged 48 who’s never even stepped inside the Jericho Tavern on Walton Street (let alone a ‘mosh pit’ at the Gloucester Arms in Friars Entry, Oxford), it marked something of a breakthrough.

You see, friends of mine here at the Mail are so astonished (in dumb shock actually) that I’ve never watched a band perform live, that they’ve clubbed together to persuade me to attend a heavy metal gig sometime over the next nine months. And the Bootleg Beatles, by way of an initiation, was intended as my baptism.

And I really ‘dug’ it! I head-banged my way through Eleanor Rigby and ‘moshed’ my way through Michelle, Ma Belle and loved it.

So, should you or any of your friends in the near future spot a pin-striped, cuff-linked ‘cat’ ‘doing his ‘thing’ during the Trivium concert, at the O2 Academy on March 20, don’t be afraid to say ‘hi’. I swear I’ve buried E.T!