About twenty years ago, I got chucked out of the press box at a Bruce Springsteen concert. For shouting "Show us your willie, Bruce." Which upset the great and the good who were enjoying free hospitality. Tonight we all got to let our hair down. "I sort of feel cheated," said one of our number as we headed home. "It's like having the most sublime night of intimate lovemaking, and then realising he did it last night with someone else and got the same amount of pleasure. How can he prefer any other audience or any other performance to tonights?" The audience was a mix of blokes bellowing his name so it sounded like rounds of boos. Which was very confusing. And women - like me - on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Three hours of yelping everytime he looked in our direction... I was actually jumping up and down, shouting "Pick me, pick me!" Despite being twenty feet up the side. Three hours of hot tunes. Three hours of non-stop bouncing. Three hours of excessive dilation. A lot of seats will need wiping down, I can tell you;-)