2003-11-14 - 2:39 p.m.

A splendid night out last night, watching the Tiger Lil*ies live in concert. For anyone who doesn�t know them, they�re just your average 1920�s Berlin cabaret, castrati-lead, depravity-loving pop band singing about orally raping the mouth of Jesus as they nail him to the cross. All good family fun, if your family happens to run their own S&M brothel. There�s nothing like watching a cross between Krusty the Clown, Maria Callas and Jack the Ripper do an achingly haunting melody on the accordion that pulls at your heart strings before launching into a verse that starts �I love a little hamster up my anus�. What�s not to like?

I arrived late and was ushered in under cover of relative darkness, apologising to the couple I disturbed for oooooooooooooooh about a millisecond as I sat down. As well as huffing and puffing about it, I heard the guy say to the woman more loudly than was necessary, �Watch your wallet!� Jesus! Just because I haven�t had a shave in a week or donned a suit and tie I�m immediately identified as some kind of guttersnipe pickpocket, liable to dip into people�s handbags as they sit mesmerised by the action on stage! I held my tongue and was reassured when I saw the fools desperately taking it in turns to take slugs from a hip flask for pretty much all the first half, their booze-addled brains obviously going into paranoia overdrive. Either that, or the guy said something totally different like, er, �Fancy a salt and vinegar flavoured crisp?� and my booze-addled brain has gone into paranoia overdrive. It�s not beyond the bounds of possibility.

But the band were excellent, and were in the foyer to great their fans and sign CDs afterwards. There was quite a clamour, and I heard a couple of people ask them quite insistently what they were doing later that evening, and not, I don�t think, in a groupie way.

I imagine that�s one of the downsides to fame, that people who have spent time listening to or reading you will automatically assume they would be the perfect person for you to hang out with, and become lifelong friends with. But what most of them don�t realise is that the pursuit of fame is undertaken for the very reason of avoiding hanging out with any old stranger who wanders up. What�s the bloody point of being any kind of star if you have to hang out with normal people? Heavens to Betsy, I can do that, and I haven�t even enjoyed an iota of personal success. The point of being famous is that you avoid this plebeian interaction, surely? I like how Davis Sed*ris answers all his fan mail once, but if they reply back again, he never replies in case they think he wants to be their friend. These people shouldn�t, after all, have to mix with the likes of, er, us.