I was fascinated especially by two Goths who said not a word to each other all night, but stood close together like Emperor penguins in a blizzard.

While still in Attenborough mode, I watched how the audience assembled themselves for a good listen.

It starts with a line of folk across the front of the stage, and the area behind fills up with people holding pints, which they wave dangerously in the air.

The front line is not quite uninhibited enough to mosh (go on, ask your grandchildren) but instead set up a rhythmic jigging that involves the tossing of a mane or two and the slight bending of the knees in time to the beat.

Set times are not liberal. The bands – there were four in all – came on when they were supposed to and went off almost to the minute. You have to stick to the rules, I suppose, in such a confined space, so that the next lot can get their kit in place.

To get to the Parish I’d arrived in Huddersfield in that spooky gap between the shops closing and the pubs and clubs kicking off.

When I left with my ears ringing, I made my way back through a town centre awash with scantily-clad teens and early twenties, milling like starlings around the entrance to a dozen thumping discos.

At each door, huge black guys in suits a couple of sizes too small for them hulked officiously, their fluorescent arm-bands trumpeting bouncer authority.

I sauntered casually through them and past the watchful clusters of cops. There was thunder in the air, but I wasn’t fazed.

See, I’m cool. My daughter says so.