To the recently opened Marquee on Leicester Square to see HOST play their final gig of the year. Now before I let loose, the promoters at the Marquee are a fine, upstanding bunch of people who have given me many a gig. So I have no truck with them, although when I arrived head honcho Allan greeted me with a friendly handshake, and when I said to him “Interesting venue. Very WIDE,” replied “well, that makes 3 of us.” I'd rather he'd just said “You're fat.” Would have been funnier, actually, as well.

The first band on were the kind of turgid, repetitive drivel which tends to suck any joy out of live music. It's just absurd for a band to go onstage in front of about 30 people and attempt to adopt any kind of sneering attitude without any hint of irony. But the suited and booted bass player had his foot on the monitor within 5 minutes, before punching the air and dancing in an ungainly fashion as if 240 volts was coursing through his Fender Precision. I looked across at , who looked as if he was going to kill somebody. It's at moments like this – on a Monday night, in a soulless venue in touristland, watching a humourless, passionless bunch of wankers whose only motivation is, hilariously, fame and adoration – that I wonder why I still bother going to gigs at all.

The lighting engineer had already marked himself out as a late winning entry in the King Plum competition of 2004, by strutting around the venue during the soundcheck singing the words “I'm in love with a beautiful girl” at high volume, before remarking loudly, “Now, THAT'S the kind of sound I like,” when Jim was messing about on his keyboards. To top all this off he then came in and out of the room repeatedly, and for no reason, while slamming the doors behind him – willing us, pleading with us to look over at him in his stupid hat. This kind of behaviour is more normally associated with 3 year old boys, and his control of the lighting desk mirrored this toddler approach as he satisfied his short attention span by turning a 20-foot area of stage into something approaching a Jean Michel Jarre spectacular. When he'd finished he marched around backstage with a big torch, just shining it around randomly. A Troubled Man.

HOST broke strings a-plenty, and were accursed by illness, but still successfully delivered the goods. “Brick By Brick” will be one of the songs of 2005, without question. Ant and I legged it as soon as they were done, but not before going to the toilet. 3 points about the toilets: a) You have to ascend three flights of stairs to get there. b) You are confronted (predictably, as this is Central London) with a bloke in front of a tray of soaps and perfumes. Look. This is THE MARQUEE. The majority of people downstairs are only fleetingly familiar with soap as it is. What on earth makes you think they're going to tip you for dousing them in rose-water? Oh, and c) They've decided to design the toilets to resemble some kind of optical illusion, with doors sloping at odd angles, playing havoc with ones sense of perspective. I'd say that the last place you want to prompt confusion and uncertainty in people is when they really need to go to the toilet. This was borne out by the rivers of piss that flowed across the floor.

Goodbye, Marquee. I shan't be back. Unless there's a good gig on, of course.