It’s all very well being good at reading, writing and doing sums; but to further your education properly you need to see a master at work.
So with that in mind yours truly remortgaged the house, bought two standing tickets to see Prince in Manchester last Friday and took daughter #1 along.
Genius is a word that’s bandied about far too carelessly these days.
But when the little magician glided a few feet in front of us (we were so close to the stage we could smell him) during a slowed down, beefed-up Let’s Go Crazy and made his guitar make noises that made your eyes spin backwards in their sockets, I tapped our 14-year-old on the shoulder and said: “See that? That’s what a rock star looks like.”
Obviously, the man isn’t in his mid-20s Purple Rain pomp these days.
But for a guy in his mid-50s he is still every inch the solid gold, diamonds and pearls encrusted superstar.
White flared pants and a kaftan topped off with an afro isn’t a look that’s easy to carry off, trust me I’ve tried, but Prince looked every inch the world’s No.1 rock star.
Ever since daughter #1 turned down the chance to see Arctic Monkeys last year because it was a band her old man liked so therefore they must be awful (and boy, did she regret that decision) she has been keen to bite my hand off to see any act I flip out over.
Three songs in, after everyone came to their senses, I watched the show through daughter #1’s eyes.
They were wide, very wide.
And even though the mosh pit was full of thirty and fortysomethings, she danced all night.
Well I say all night, kids today don’t have the stamina of 55-year-old rock stars and after two-and-a-half hours she’d had enough of the dad dancers treading on her toes and went out for a sit-down.
But not before she did something that made me feel 10 feet tall.
An hour into the show a pilled-up, muscle-bound shirtless lad in his late teens danced up to her, chanced his arm and made a move.
Before I could say: “She’s 14, **** off,” she sent him packing with a look that turns men to stone.
That’s my girl.