Bros: Hammersmith Odeon, London

"I NEED a drink," my fellow Brosette whimpers urgently. It's the deafening interval 'tween set-end and encore. For an hour he'd gamely stood his ground, one of perhaps five boys in the audience and certainly the oldest by several decades. We make for the bar. It's resolutely shut. Quel surprise — most Brosettes wouldn't be able to see over the counter, let alone want to stride up and demand a pint of Special Brew. A cursory check of the refreshment counter downstairs reveals that there's no possibility of scoring even a caffeine high.