The Limelight is empty. Where last night there were hundreds of kids clambering for a piece of Sweden’s finest The Hives, tonight there’s just empty space. The Parkinsons don’t take this as an insult – they’re into quality audience more than quantity. And being immensely polite for a punk band, they’re determined to make an effort for those that have turned up.

The Parkinsons steal from the usual suspects – Iggy? Check. Sex Pistols? Check. MC5? Well you get the picture. But while there’s no shortage of other bands mining a similar seam, what sets these guys apart is that they’ve not forgotten to heap on the sleaze, the grime and the humour. “You’re shit!” screams somebody from the floor. “We know,” they shrug.

To me there’s nothing as perversely satisfying as the support upstaging the main band. Ikara Colt seem like nice people. They’re vaguely funny and charming and the lead singer could be the bastard child of Mark Owen and Julian C. The music is inoffensive – staccato Fall-esque vocals over fuzzy feedback guitars and a drummer’s machine gun precision that is impossible to ignore. But it’s difficult to imagine anyone getting very excited about this band and therein lies the rub. Do we really need another average band?