It’s time to place blame. Mister Manson, you may not be responsible for that reality tv, high-school, Wolfenstein; or ruining middle America; or eating my Gran's cat, but you Brian - can I call you Brian, Brian? – are responsible for influencing some shocking examples of ‘style’. I don’t wanna get all coked-up slapper-bitch on yo ass, but c’mon people, look in a mirror! Green and black stripes don’t go with anything, least of all whiter than white skin. And really young lady, does your mother know you’re out in your pants? Thought as much... And girl trying to be Emily The Strange, oi you, yes, YOU, is that remotely clever and original, or is that the laziest goff-off-the-rack-in-top-shop I ever did see? Stop staring at me like that, with your different coloured eyes, I can wear what I like, love.

But whilst it’s easy to place blame and snigger at the ‘trendies’ faking it, you’ve gotta feel sorry for The Guy, Tha Man, Tha' Icon. Taking the stage half an hour late, he looks a bit bored, haggard and all a bit going through the motions. EMOtions? All I can think about is Frank Sinatra, Mick Jagger and Kiss, still doing this performing malarkey when they should really be picking up their pensions. It takes me back to watching Hulk Hogan groping The Undertaker, all wrinkles and play acting; it seemed so real to a doe-eyed eight year old. Tonight, in a room rammed with rock kids, Charles Monroe is the realest thing these folks ever did see in their whole entire lives. He ain't a manufactured pop-puppet, he ain't a tuneless big nosed yokel, he's Marilyn-fucking-Manson in London, baby!

A quick Jesus on the cross pose. And we're off. Kicking in with ’This is the New Shit’ the bullied rock-hack, the Smartie in a pack of razorblades, wearing the face of a clown and a rented Hitler wig (is that a new hair-cut?) is playing god. An anti-god at that (is there a difference?). With a new record to show off and the same old rock'n'roll death-rant that music’s the new religion, find your own sect and stick to it, conform to it and defend it to the death. Like worms. Like muppets. The leader's gotta shed his skin when his followers catch up and get the god-like look right. You’ve gotta feel sorry for The Guy.

Tonight’s boat-rocking-yet-never-capsizing set consists of all the hits. With added podium dancers trained by automatons. Oh and some stilts and arm extenders, obviously. That ’Tainted Love’ cover is tossed in early, with yes-i-can-write-pop-songs chasers ‘Disposable Teens’ (YOU SAY YOU WON-AH REV-OL-OOH-SHUN?? MAN?) recent single be-be-obscene ‘mObscene’, the glam bowie-tribute toting ‘Dope Show’ and obviously the big-hit, the one which got half-the-world into ol’ Maz, the pots and pans trashing, throat tearing, mildly ironic (considering I've been playing spot-the-non-fat-spotty-grebo-goth), the call to arms, the one everyones knows… ‘Beautiful People’! And suddenly it's a party, people are smiling and the strobes have stopped making everything look a greeny red.

And that was that. People leave for their homes, having seen a showman rub roses all over his body and had all those moments of hate, self-pity and epiphany re-lived and revoked like picking at scabs!