Seeing Kasabian’s name in lights outside the venue seemed wonderfully 1950s, but the French attitude towards queueing for gigs is very modern in comparison. Running appears to be actively encouraged, even in the case of stairs (or later in the tour a courtyard layered with a sheet of ice). I agree with this method of entry; it’s like natural selection. Those tough enough to withstand the front will get there, leaving a trail of sprawled bodies dressed as half-arsed imitations of Liam Gallagher behind them.

Speaking of bodies, before I move onto the irrefutable greatness of Kasabian, the impromtu support act, Parisian three-piece The Control Band, warrant a mention. Part funk-rock and part lap dance, the devastatingly sexual semi-clad singer had the venue and Kasabian’s crew beside themselves with excitement. How there wasn’t a major delay, with most of the crew and guitar techies (hell, even the driver had a reason to be onstage…) crowded around the lighting desk half-heartedly trying to appear as if they were working, I don’t know. They don’t have support bands like that in Britain…

Then “Aah, Julie Julie!” and the gig began in earnest. It became apparent very quickly, with the quick-fire delivery of Underdog, Where Did All The Love Go? and Swarfiga, that European crowds take a far more laid-back stance. I don’t think I was even touched by the second row all gig, let alone pushed. There was much jumping, helped by a childishly fun bouncy floor, but it was a self-contained, rather than aggressive, lairiness.

Tommy Meighan was on typical antagonistic form, swaggering about the stage like a world leader addressing his nation on cocaine. Guitarist Serge Pizzorno adopted his ‘head down and don’t look at me’ pose, broken only by a spate of uncharacteristically enthusiastic dancing during album track Take Aim and new single Vlad The Impaler. This stage of opposing personas, with Tommy and Serge flanked by the painfully cool impassiveness of Jay Mehler and the nervous head-bobbing of bassist Chris Edwards, cumulated with Tommy returning to the stage wearing the new World Cup 2010 England strip to a chorus of boos in their encore.

While the set meandered through more diverse songs of the past and present, from ID to Processed Beats, from Empire to Thick As Thieves, the encore was an unashamed singalong. Fire, with an extra chorus for good measure, followed by Vlad The Impaler, a song so laden with stomping attitude that it seems likely to explode away from the band as a seperate entity at any second, followed by the effortlessly catchy “la la la’s” of LSF.

The madness is spreading. “Paris you’re a fucking empire!” Tommy sneered, hands aloft. Paris was their empire. With such intelligent songs backed-up with such self-assured delivery, I imagine anywhere could be Kasabian’s empire.