9:57 pm | 22 June 2003 | it's a wonderful life

Open Letter to My Fellow Nick Cave Concertgoers

To the girls in the denim shorts on either side of Porkchop and i: SHUT UP. No, really. SHUT UP. I did not drop fifty quid to hear you talking about bullshit. In fact, you could be discussing quantum theory and i would still be tempted to shove my fist into your pursy little mouths. CRAM IT.

To the guy who managed to combine "bald on top" with "sorta having a mullet" yet who jammed HARD to "the Mercy Seat": go forth, my brother. Your coif indiscretions are more than compensated for by your thoroughly rockin' elan.

To the beefy dude farting incessantly and odiferously directly in front of us: No, i didn't need the skin on my shins. Thank you for your explosive gastrointestinal eruptions, which really added to the show.

To special guest Chris Bailey: You are awesome, even if you do look just like Meatloaf's long lost nephew. BRING IT.

To the girl who said, "Shannon Wright (opening guy) is better than Nick Cave. Well, better looking, anyway": i hope your mouth is big enough for my dick. i hate you. a lot.

To the guy behind me who was intent on explaining everything about every song to the clueless chick accompanying him: It's really cool that you know 'Tupelo' is about Elvis, and that 'West Country Girl' was written for (urchglk) Kylie Minogue, etc., but save it for later. If you tell her all this stuff when you're in close proximity to, say, a couch, maybe you will get some action. At the show, it's just annoying.

To Nick: thankyouthankyouthankyou. Especially for playing "The Loom of the Land." And Warren? You are still my #1 Imaginary Boyfriend. Shred that violin, you hot-ass, you. clm.