Some our staff went, others stayed and watched or listened to the television and radio. Since every newspaper hack in Britain is determined to make this into a world event, my staff give their own hazy, booze tainted recollections for posterity.
I was in my car and Radio One's witless wittering presenters contrived to ruin the concert by concentrating on their own stupid, pointless interviews with idiots and retards in the crowd, whilst neglecting to cover the actual concert. For example, when Coldplay started their set, Radio One was broadcasting a spectacularly inane conversation between one of its shit presenters and an equally moronic member of the audience. Their unwanted, pointless, boring and utterly irrelevant opinions continued for at least the first minute of Coldplay's set.
Not that I am a fan of Coldplay, or Cockplay as I call them. I would however, have preferred to hear them than the totally wanky, asinine drivel spouted by the two total fucking retards that made poor excuses for presenters and any of the chimp-like members of the public they were interviewing.
This continued throughout the coverage, as the presenters were unable to shut the fuck up for more than thirty seconds without gushing a torrent of poorly articulated vomit in which every third word was "amazing". I nearly crashed my car on purpose, I was that angry.
As you probably already know, I recently poured a five litre can of gloss paint onto the bonnet of Dido's car. Except that it wasn't her car. It belonged to a stupid woman, who obviously had gone out of her way to try and look as much like the pointless, tuneless, musically inert cow in the mistaken hope that people would think she was cool.
Dido was flat. She's flat on all her records, but the magic of signal processing is able to "fatten" her thin, tone-free voice, widening it enough to make it just about come into tune in places. She's got two voices - one a flat monotone, the other a slightly sharp yodel. Her shit singing was covered up by her being accompanied on stage by African singer Youssou N'Dour, who as luck would have it could sing. He did his best to cover up her terrible fucking voice, but he was really up against it.
Unfortunately, I was a bit drunk, and far too far away to throw anything at her. I had to satisfy myself instead with a mental image of Suzi Quattro, Debbie Harry and Chrissie Hynde all kicking the shit out of her.
Me and Binge were about fifty people back from the stage, roughly centre. Binge is one of those people who stands at gigs with his arms crossed, face stern, occasionally shaking his head whenever he feels the live performance makes what he considers to be a serious deviation from the recorded version. During Madonna's performance he got into a bit of an altercation with a shortarse little twat behind him who had become fed up being stuck behind his lanky frame, and who started pushing him and calling him "Rodders".
He had been getting mouthy and trying to impress a group of women behind him. Just as it looked like a fight was about to start, Binge reaches down and pulls down his shorts and pants, so that they're round his ankles, and pushes him backwards. After landing among the group of girls on his back, in this state of undress, his predictably small knob not quite in view, all he could do was disappear sharpish with the sound of drunken female laughter ringing in his ears.
Cousin Pongo got me a backstage pass - he's involved in hospitality. What luck! I had access to the sumptuous spread laid out for the stars: Champers, caviar, canapes, nibbles, booze and more booze!
I had a good old chat with many of the young men of the many bands, but had been looking forward most to meeting Robbie Williams. I'd already met Robbie a few years ago at one of Cousin Celia's record business launch parties. I think I'd made quite and impression on him then, from what little I am able to remember.
Robbie came into the room beaming, after having just enraptured the two hundred thousand odd strong crowd. His triumphant grin froze on his face as he caught me, at first not quite sure from where he recognised me, but as realisation dawned his expression began to change. Before he had time to make up his mind to turn and leave, I was already spiriting him towards the drinks tray in the corner with my tightest grip on his arm. He barely noticed how I stomped on the revolting Jo Whiley's foot and pushed her skinny frame backwards into the salad table as we passed.
It never ceases to amaze me how a man so confident and extrovert can suddenly seem so unsure of himself, terrified almost. Maybe I was a little drunk last time we'd met, and with hindsight, perhaps I should not have squeezed his arse quite so hard. He made his excuses and left.
After that I got chatting to a fun young man called Peter. I think he was in a band, but I can't remember what they were called. His girlfriend was a model, but we stood by the buffet and she wouldn't come over. We had a few gins, and then Elton John of all people came over and tried to get him to go home. I told him to mind is own business, and he left in the most ridiculous huff. Not sure what happenned after that, I can remember hitting Midge Ure with one of my Jimmy Choos as he tried to persuade Peter to climb back down the stage scaffolding. When I woke up I was one of only about a dozen people left in Hyde Park. I had a terrible hangover, no shoes, no handbag and a dead leg. Just as I was about to curse my predicament, I realised that the pain in my chest was coming from a three-quarter full bottle of gin I must have slept on.
What an absolutely frightful din! I stayed in the office with some earplugs and a four pack of oxtail cup-a-soup and tried to watch as much as I could on the television. I remember a man called Scooby Dog Do (or was it Scruffy Dog's Muck?), who just clapped and swore. Some vulgar young ruffians called Pink Floyd and those juvenile delinquents, The Whom.
Where was that fine young thing Lulu? Or up and coming stars such as Cleo Lane and Shirley Bassey? I decided to write to Lulu to ask her why she wasn't appearing, and then I suddenly remembered the court injunction.