We'll still have fun.

The car dashboard is complaining about the fact that it's -7 degrees outside.
Meanwhile we're screaming Cliff Richard's "Merry Christmas, Everyone" to the cars queuing impatiently on each side of us on the M25 at a comfortable 20 degrees.

We walk fast towards the O2.
My next to broken pumps feel damp. But they're just cold.

We queue for an hour.
It's a little warmer here next to people looking at us weirdly as we warm ourselves up to a constantly interrupted version of "Assereje". Thank you Las Ketchup Girls.

Walk - don't run!
But I tripped up, I wasn't running, Jesus!
5 metres and we'd be on the stage.
It's warmer now.

Bye Bye Lady Starlight.
Shit, someone's fainted.
Well I didn't take him seriously 'cause he's a bit of a drama queen. You, madam, are a wonderful friend. And have a wonderful behind. Conglats.
Uh oh, someone else has fainted.

Drinks are distributed.
Jesus, share that fucking drink!
Drama Queen returns with a full cup of drink and hot dog.
Should I pass out in front of Gaga?
It's sweaty and jumpy.

The uber-Gaga fan to the left of me is giving me nervous glances and copies every move I make.
You smell bad, so no thanks.
In fact, most of Standing Area smells bad.
But the music is too overpowering for me to care about the odours too much.

Want your Bad Romace.
Heart is racing.
Want your Bad Romance.
I throw the 'Gaga's Got It' pamphlets for effect.
Heart races onwards.

The lights come up.
There are no remaining pamphlets trampled into the floor.
Somebody has taken quite a few and shows them to someone else.
It still feels hot.

I'm cooling down to a pleasant temperature at the Car Park ticket machine.
Have a drink.
God, I love water.

Turned onto the A2.
I'm feeling a bit cold.