At the O2 last night

Guns n Roses supported by Thin Lizzy. Rarr!

I had such a crush on Phil Lynott once upon a teen, despite his mad hair. He was so sexy, a grinning gippo wildman; You just knew he'd sing something amazing to you, then take you to his caravan and start kissing you, only to pass out within 30 seconds obliterated by a pill and whisky cocktail. Kind of safe because he was too stoned to be really bad. And I loved his voice, the songs... Time changes. Phil's gone and whoever sings in his place does a startlingly good impression of him. 'Phil's still riding with us!' He boomed. Well I dunno. But I still love you Thin Lizzy, I'm not even sure why. Guitars belting out and just for a moment, the Boys Are Back In Town XXX

So there we were, sitting in our VIP box, waiting for Guns n Roses, who deigned to turn up sometime around 11 pm. It was kind of cool seeing the warnings flash up about tubes and trains no longer running, and how folk might have to get home via bus or boat.

Between you and me, I always considered Axl Rose a screechy wee full-of-himself puff adder. The big GnR stuff was great; I was just allergic to his strangely vacant puggy pasty little face. He's not up there with the great mingers of music like Mick Hucknell or that guy from the Pogues who made you want to pass out just by opening his mouth. Axl thought he was special, and that was enough to put me off.

Live, he is special. He's got discipline, despite the years he's kept his voice trained, nothing cracking, nothing breaking, gets the notes, and weirdly, he sounds much more distinctive than in recording. Impressive, professional musicians, Guns n Roses only suffered from the inevitable onset of Status Quo syndrome; ie. No-one gives a damn about the new stuff; 'Chinese Democracy,' it's called, whatever. But 'Welcome to The Jungle?' 'Sweet Child o' Mine?' 'November Rain?' It was all there, and all good.

I had put off having my tooth extracted because of vanity; it's one of the back ones dangling down into my mouth in a very unpleasant way, but I wasn't turning up at the O2 with my numb gob pulled down on one side, looking thpethul. I just can't eat much, so naturally tonight is my introduction to Nobu, another surprise from my beloved. This would be a disaster if we weren't facing Japanese cuisine: I mean that's just sticky rice, right? Withth me wuck.

Speaking of mouths, a message to a woman sitting nearby: Lady, yer man's desire for fellatio ain't about your skill, it's about your silence. Who comes to a rock concert for a chat? He was desperate to hear the band and had run out of ideas; god knows you'd already eaten every pie in the stadium. Shh!