You can’t begrudge anyone having privileged start in life, but when you roll up to a venue in your knackered death-trap of a former Royal Mail delivery van which you’ve been crammed into along with all of your gear and your flatulent guitarist for the past agonizing 5 hours and you see the fresh-faced support act, barely out of school, unloading a drum kit worth more than your van from their dad-bought dad-driven spacious tourbus complete with XBox, it can be hard to not to feel a nauseating mixture of…

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