Just as I'm about to push the glass doors to get to the desk, I hear an unpleasant voice in my left ear.

"Once you go out, you can't come back in".  I look round to see a skinny, white boy (barely in his late teens), dressed in a canary yellow t-shirt, and on a power-trip.  

"But I've got to collect a photo pass from the box office - the tour manager is on his way with it."

He ignores me and ushers the latecomers to hand over their tickets, before turning back and saying "wait here."

Dialing the number of the tour manager, I explain being trapped behind a pair of glass doors in the foyer.  I'm then told the pass has been dropped round.  Skinny white boy, who's been eavesdropping, yells "Come on!  Quick!  Hurry up!"

Far from quaking in my boots, I have a strong desire to knee him in the groin instead.  Approaching the same window of the box office, I inform them of the pass waiting for me.  It's barely been five minutes since I was last at this spot and already they've forgotten my name.

"Wuss ya name?", inquires the girl with the bandana.

"Afsheen."

"Nope, there's nothing here."

I ask her again, fully aware she didn't bother to look or ask, before a yellow pass is thrust in my face.  Now, she could have saved both of us a lot of time and bother had she done that straight away.  It's amazing how honorable a press pass is - guarantees you get treated like shit basically.  And it's no joy having a bunch of teenage girls scream "I love you, Darius!" in your ears, while you duck under their banners to take photos in the few minutes you've got.  I suppose I did OK, though.

With a near sell-out crowd of adolescents, mums (mine included), aunts, grannies, dads, a small but collective gathering of the gay audience and thoughtful boyfriends accompanying their girlfriends, it's pretty remarkable for Darius to attract such a cross-section of fans, admirers and cradle snatchers.

Tonight's the last night of his debut solo tour and while his former Pop Idol mates Will Young and Gareth Gates have been out of reach in the hollow warehouses they've performed in, Darius Danesh has wisely opted for the smaller yet intimate venue tour - something which is all too often by-passed in favour of more bums on seats, more profit.

Launching his set from a small platform in the centre of the stage, the front row (which has now multiplied ten-fold with the rows behind joining the area) surges forward to grab a piece of the Scotsman.  Clearly thrilled by the adorning infatuation, he generously reciprocates, running from one end of the stage to the other, touching hands along the way.

With a show scheduled to last 90 minutes, it's not just the songs from his debut album Dive In that are played, but a bizarre mix of Frank Sinatra, Justin Timberlake, Nelly, George Michael and Tom Jones/Prince.  Although he sounds spectacular live, his baritone displaces the sassiness of 'Bootylicious' for a flat, mediocre karaoke version and the strange encore of Blink 182's punk-rock classic 'All The Small Things' is an exhausting but half-hearted effort.  Why 'Hit Me Baby One More Time' was left out is a great shame.

'Rushes', 'Dive In', 'Girl In The Moon' and 'Incredible' are executed with perfection and for a minute, the smugness of Mr Danesh is easily forgotten about...until he starts to emulate the actions of a younger Tom Jones and Elvis Presley.  Cue numerous pelvic thrusts, hip-swivelling, plenty of arse-wiggling, teasing the crowd by lifting half his shirt up, bending down to kiss hands and amusingly, wiping the sweat off his forehead with a large pair of granny pants.  It's enough to have you burying your head in your hands.

To have girls jump onto the stage and grab him, and to be molested by the front row, including one pair of hands that gently massage his crotch for a good minute or so, doesn't distract him from forgetting the words to 'Colourblind'.  The same can't be said for the exasperated floor manager, who desperately tries to pull apart the girls glued to Darius' torso.  Darius, on the other hand, would much rather have let them remain.  The life of a popstar - to have your body lusted after by a bevvy of totties, while jealous boyfriends/husbands grumble in disgust.

Later, it's baffling to see a long queue for the Ladies outside.  Surely all that dampness must have been drained out during the concert.

The last year has been, um, incredible for Darius - a number one single, a platinum album and a national tour to boot.  If he drops the cheesiness and sticks to the singer-songwriter stuff, he'll accumulate more credit (and pants) than Simon Cowell's tongue-lashing jibes.  So Robbie, you've got nowt the worry about - you're just fine. 
(3/5)

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