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From there, we went to Acquiesce, before the familiar chords of Morning Glory rang out. If people weren’t screaming then, they certainly were at that point; from there on, the clock seemed to whizz back in time; the ghost of a thousand pub singalongs filled the air, given super-powered lift-off by the fact that we were seeing them live. The whole thing, in fact, felt like it was taking place in a sweaty, tiny venue, except scaled up a thousand by Wembley’s vast interior.
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