Having spent the day on a hospital visit and being buffeted by gales and rain on my bicycle, I was in the right frame of mind for a three-hour set by one of rock’s most famously miserable bands, The Cure.

True to form, Robert Smith was singing about the end of the world as I arrived at Wembley Arena. Guitars echoed and quivered, a shuddering beat filled the air, Smith’s voice was an anguished, half-swallowed cry. It was gloom on a majestic scale, like the interior of a gothic cathedral.