I'M not sure, but I think that the circle of my life experience may just have been completed.

It was brought close to conclusion a few years ago when I stumbled upon a live performance of The Krankies whilst camping in Devon, and it was finally brought to a close on Saturday night when I could not resist the temptation to go along to see The Rubettes at a local village fête. Yes the real Rubettes, not the plastic Rubettes, or any other sound-a-like tribute band. The real Mccoy - live.

We were somewhat dubious as to whether or not it would be the real band, as they did enjoy a certain level of success in France, and Arnac (the venue) is truly tiny, not even really big enough to be called a village. Their name provokes wistful looks and memories among the French, whereas The Bay City Rollers or The Osmonds simply provoke blank stares. But it was definitely them. With true professionalism they began their set on the dot of 11 o'clock as advertised, but there were a few surprises.

There weren't quite so many of them as there used to be. In fact, there were just two, with guitars and a backing-track machine, and they did look a little older, as you might expect. They were both dressed in Jeremy Clarkson uniform of trainers, jeans and suit jackets, without a single sequin, flare or white cloth cap in sight. Mick (or Mark) was entirely bald whilst Mark (or Mick), the one that you would recognize, had managed to keep hold of some of those good looks that once propelled him into the centre pages of Jackie magazine and from there on to the bedroom walls of tens of thousands of young girls in 1974.

The audience was something else. Not huge, numbering less than a couple of hundred, but enthusiastic. Between a stroke-survivors convention and a care-in-the-community glee club with an average age just south of 70.

Fortunately, Arnac appears to have a well-attended rock'n'roll dance class because those geriatrics were swinging, jiving and jitterbugging for all they were worth to an endless stream of old rock'n'roll cover numbers from Little Richard to Bill Haley, but precious little from The Rubettes' back catalogue.

I am a little ashamed to admit that we didn't stay until the end because their timing did clash with the Laguepie fête, our one night out of the year. The same band were playing as last year, with the same old rock covers, which we enjoyed last year, so we pretty much knew what we would be getting. And there would of course be the added attraction of the man with the Bon Jovi haircut putting on the fabled horned crash helmet connected to the Calor Gas bottle that shoots out flames up to the roof. You try drinking your own body weight in cheap beer, and you would also find it entertaining.

So the poor old Rubettes were abandoned to their Darby and Joan crowd. They just couldn't compete, but if they brought back the white suits and the white caps, the world could once again be their oyster. I know, I've seen them.