WHEN a pop star in a giant hamster ball rolled over my head at Alexandra Palace, I knew it was time to hang up by gigging shoes (my corns were killing me too).

Moments later, a teenage girl staggered past me and threw up (that's one way to clear a packed crowd).

Behind me stood a tone-deaf girl who screamed lyrics so loudly I couldn't hear the band – Twenty One Pilots – all the while thrusting her considerable bust into my back in time with the beat.

What's more, in the time between ordering the tickets and going to the gig, my 14-year-old daughter had cooled her ardour for this US duo.

Rewind nine months earlier and it was a different story. We had tickets to see the band at the 02 Academy in Leeds, and my young teen was counting the days, hours and minutes until curtain up.

It was a fairly civilised affair. We queued in an orderly fashion for the balcony area, striking up a friendship with a mum and daughter who'd travelled from Dublin to see the band. We bagged second-row seats, offering a great view of the proceedings, and happily for me (if not for my daughter) far away from the mosh pit below and the risk of being squished or swilled with sticky beer.

We left with our ears ringing and an overpriced sweatshirt, but grinning at what had been a great gig and a memorable experience.

And so the pestering began. If there was a band my daughter wanted to see, she would send me email links and WhatsApp messages detailing ticket details. I resisted many of them, but relented if it was a band I liked too (my daughter cottoned on to this and started sharing her music with me, which I welcomed).

And so we had some great mini adventures. I took her to Glasgow to see band-of-the-moment The 1975, hooking up with my sister who lives in Edinburgh, and where we had arranged to stay overnight. It meant after the gig rushing to catch the last train back (which reminds me of one of my favourite jokes: what is the best thing to come out of Glasgow? The Edinburgh train). The gig was a good one and my daughter was pleased with her band merch (more overpriced outerwear), but just as chuffed I think to score some hot food from a late-night chippy on the way back to the station.

We had another outing to Glasgow in the Easter holidays to see Nothing But Thieves, who had just supported rock superstars Muse on an arena tour. Unlike the previous gigs there was no balcony at the venue, so we had to take our chances with the crowd. My daughter was delighted. We were about five from the front and had an excellent view. As my daughter watched in awe, I kept guard, standing behind her and trying to take up as much space as possible to stop others jostling her, while carrying our bags and coats!

It was an enjoyable gig, but standing for hours takes its toll (there's a big difference between nearing 50 rather than 15), and I had secretly vowed: never again.

And so it was against my better judgement that we ventured to the capital to see Twenty One Pilots for the second time in nine months.

Alexandra Palace is massive and the biggest venue I had taken my daughter too. We queued for ages in the bitter cold just to get in – once inside we couldn't even see the stage. There were big screens (thank heavens), and the band did their bit by setting up a mini stage half way into the crowd and performing part of the set there.

But they took getting closer to their fans that bit further when singer Tyler Joseph entered a giant red hamster ball and launched into the crowd, running like frightened rabbit over our heads. As he scampered towards me, instinct made me reach up to push him away from my head. My daughter, of course, videoed the entire episode. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry!

And so my year of gigging dangerously has come to an end. I think my daughter is secretly pleased – now she can go with someone her own age.