Stunned by the realisation that James Marsters is not a particularly good musician

Myself and the crazy landlord and the wee sinead went to see James Marsters (aka Spike of Buffy and Angel fame) at the Union Chapel. He was perfectly adequate as a slightly crap singer-songwriter guy. If he was a friend and we were sitting around his flat and he was playing us a couple of songs he had written, I would have been impressed. But as someone filling the Union Chapel with thousands of screaming fans I was under-awed.

It was a surreal experience. I think if it hadn't been for the intimidating enthusiasm of the other fans we might not have retreated to the bar. The flashes of hundreds of digital cameras went off incessantly, and the place erupted with middle-aged teen lust when Marsters took off his cardigan to reveal he was wearing a sleeveless tee shirt.

He sang out of tune for the first couple of songs, but then his voice warmed up or his monitor kicked in or something and he was fine for the next two. But then the cardigan came off and it all became a bit weird. At that point we retreated to the bar to discuss how the gig had progressed so far.

Part of the issue is the venue. It is one of the best venues for listening to music in London, if not the world. It's absolutely beautiful, with wonderful wood work and stunning stained glass windows. It's got good sight-lines. The acoustics are sublime. It was, after all, designed as a place of reverence. All of which combine to make it a wonderful venue for listening to good music.

The same combination of factors makes it an odd place to enjoy a spectacle, however. And that's what this felt like: a spectacle.

Of course, the other brilliant thing about the Union Chapel, is its bar, which is a like a warm, welcoming chilled-out pub with high ceilings and a piano along one wall. It isn't much for quiet reverence, but it's perfect for discussing a spectacle.

And so, we did the obvious, sensible thing. We retreated to the bar and discussed the spectacle.