THE extremes to which some fans worship their idols can be quite disturbing.

Teenagers are famed for it but they can also get away with it. The posters, clothes, tantrums and tears are all put down to the confused messages and misplaced loyalties adolescence brings. The kids are all right. It's just their hormones.

It's the adult fanatics who cause the real concern. I regard myself a genuine fan of all kinds of music and when an album comes out that I really want, I will duly go and purchase it at the next available opportunity.

What I will not do, however, is queue all night in the pouring rain just to be able to be among the first in the country to hear it and get the limited edition package with the shiny badge.

There are no medals for that sort of behaviour and it really should not be condoned. Adults should know better - that hero worship is a young person's game. There is no sadder sight that witnessing grown men vying for a front-of-queue position with teenagers, just to be able to get their hands on the new football shirt first.

And as for those who annually plant themselves outside King George's Hall, in Blackburn, so as not to miss out on the opportunity to see Irish "heartthrob" Daniel O'Donnell - words can really not describe just how wrong that is.

The worst offenders are Elvis fans. I consider myself a huge fan - read the books, bought the albums, watched the documentaries etc but nothing prepared me for the level of interest I met with last week. Like the rest of the world last Friday, I was caught up in the 25th anniversary celebrations of his untimely death. If I had the funds, I would have made a pilgrimage to Graceland to savour the solemn atmosphere.

As it was I ended up in Blackpool at Europe's biggest Elvis convention. Predictably there were people in white jump-suits mingling alongside original fans, who had reapplied the chip fat to their failing quiffs and dug out their (scuffed) blue suede shoes - just like they did the first time round.

What I didn't expect was the almost religious fervour they have attached to Elvis. Elvis's stepbrother was in attendance, surrounded by fans who digested his every word on life with the King. Although 20 years Elvis's junior and not part of the Memphis Mafia (the gang of friends whom Elvis surrounded himself with) they were mesmerised just by the fact he had known Elvis and begged to have their photo taken with him.

Things took an even stranger turn when the night's entertainment came on. Three Elvis impersonators who, in their favour, did a sterling job of belting out all the classics. Rounds of applause all round. But when they came off stage and headed to the bar, they were practically mobbed.

Flashbulbs popped as people of all ages posed to have their pictures taken with them. They even signed autographs. But who were these people? When not at such events, one would hazard a guess that they were just your average Joes. One looked like he had worked down a mine for the past 20 years, while another had surely missed his calling as a Redcoat at Butlins.

The proof Elvis fans have an almost blind fixation was when "Butlins Elvis" made the error of stepping out of costume into usual attire. As soon as he did, he was a nobody. The illusion was shattered, the photos stopped and the autographs ran dry. His moment was over. Just like teenagers, even adult fans can be fickle sometimes.