Green Day

Taking a turn around Tony's Tent, or, as it is now known, the O2 Arena, one is reminded yet again of the ginormous waste of money and effort this big top acid trip represents. That it has become the weekend venue of choice for marauding bands of East End slappahs bent on alcoholic annihilation, seems only fitting. Especially when you consider the idea for building it could only have been conceived at the end of a particularly ruinous and depraved New Labour drinkathon.

No matter. We are here now, T Psych and I, to immerse ourselves in the three chord clatter of California punk puppies, Green Day. By puppies of course, I mean grizzled hounds. Perhaps out of denial of my own advancing years, it hadn't really dawned on me how long this band has actually been around. Frontman Billie Joe Armstrong soon puts me straight as he dashes across the stage like a demented Emo Pixie yelling,

'We've been doing this for fucking twenty years now, and this shit never grows old.'

Ye Gods, twenty years! I fumble for my fisherman's friends and turn down my hearing aid as the first single off the new album that sounds like the last single off the previous album, jangles into life. Bless his skull n' cross-bone socks though, Billie Joe sure knows how to please his demographic. He's constantly pulling up kohl eyed kiddies from the front row, taking pictures of them, encouraging them to stage dive and generally treating the whole thing like the end of season talent show at Butlins. He even comes over all lay preacher at one point, demanding children be brought before him so he can lay hands on them in some profound metaphorical way that possibly related to the song he was singing, but utterly went over my head and probably those of a number of slightly disturbed parents too.

In a final act of tweenie fan heaven, he calls on any young drummers, guitarists and bass players to show themselves, then selects three budding musos to take over from Tre Cool, Mike Dirnt and the other dude playing guitar whose name eludes me. Never has a child been so gifted from on high as BJ sing along over their brave efforts and every adult in the room go' Ah bless.'

T Psych has staggered back with four more pints thank G and we are able to reinforce ourselves for the inevitable encore. Or encores I should say, as the greedy buggers have the cheek to go off and on twice. This is a stoning offense in my book, but Lo, all is forgiven as BJ take to his acoustic and do a soopa medley of 'Time of your life/ When September ends', reducing all to blubbering wrecks, tho perhaps that was my distended bladder placing pressure on my eyeballs.

We're finally allowed to leave the building after being told we are a much better audience than any American one, which seems a tad of a betrayal but never mind. A cheeky beer/depissing in one of the many faceless drink o' mats residing under this tatty canvas, then it's the last tube home for us.

Ta muchly to T Psych for his great generosity and ebullient company, perhaps just the one bottle of Sake next time, we have been doing this shit for twenty years after all.

B