SOUTH KENSINGTON, last night. Mr S.P. Morrissey, 43, gave oral pleasure to Mr D. Edwards, 31, and divers others, on the second of his two dates at the Royal Albert Hall.

Before setting off, I quickly did a bit of web research on the support band, The Pony Club. Downloaded a few audio samples. Another singer-songwriter Irishman on Setanta Records using a band name, but essentially a solo artist. But not like Brian or The Divine Comedy. In fact, not my cup of tea at all. Which meant I could spend more time on my hair and leave a bit later.

I had bought a copy of NME to read on the tube, which apart from a begrudgingly kind review of a recent Morrissey US gig, and the gossip on Blur's current status, didn't take too long to read at all. I'm just not interested in the Henry Cooper Temple Clause and their ilk. Heard it all before, so, so many times before. Isn't rock and roll debauchery boring nowadays? Change the record, please.

I also made the mistake of taking said magazine into the venue with me, before realising that doing so was tantamount to wearing a Nazi uniform to a synagogue. So I hurled it in a corner and ran away.

I was pleased that my seat was right by the side of the stage, and at stage level, and not one of those loggia boxes, which, though more suited to the stylish, don't give one half as much of a good view. And I like to watch. Closely. Without having to brave the moshpit. So that's something to remember for anyone going to the RAH in future… get the side stalls if you can. They don't cost anything extra.

Just before the great man took to the stage, I racked my brains to remember who it was I saw at this venue last time I was here. Then I remember. It was Gene. Lately Belle & Sebastian also played the RAH. Both groups owe Mr M a certain something, I think it's fair to say.

And so on came the original and best. Up to the microphone, ready with the quips:

"Welcome to a night to forget."
"My parents are in the audience tonight … so no swearing. Leave it to me."
"Last night got some good reviews in the press. So we must be doing something… wrong. They described me as 'older and greyer'. As if I'm somehow meant to be younger and blonder."

The sound was superb, the band played well, and Mr Morrissey was in fine form, his quiff respectable, his voice soaring and stronger than ever, even doing (it seemed to me) a Harry Hill impersonation at the end of the opening number, "I Want The One I Can't Have", complete with head retracted into shoulders and stiff body movements. What are the chances of that happening?

For some reason, the set eschewed most of his 90s compositions written with the stalwart guitarists of his band (of over a decade and counting), Alain Whyte and Boz Boorer, apart from the grinding live favourite "Jack The Ripper" and a gloriously triumphant "Speedway". Instead, the set concentrated on airing five brand new songs, plus seven from the 1988 Stephen Street era, including a slightly truncated version of "Late Night, Maudlin Street". In the latter, Alain Whyte pulled off a nice take on Vini Reilly's shimmery guitar effect. For "Everyday Is Like Sunday", Mr Boorer played a banjo, giving the song a gorgeously warm and autumnal feel.

Of the unreleased songs, my favourite was the beautiful waltz number, "Mexico", which I have to say almost made my mascara run. Mr M told the crowd of his woes in still failing to get a new record deal, adding his particular disappointment that not a single UK label has made him an offer. I'm confused. I thought Geoff Travis had asked him to join his newly resurrected Rough Trade label, now boasting the likes of The Strokes. Was that just a rumour?

At one point, he introduced the band individually, including his lifelong friend Linder Sterling, who was at the side of the stage taking photos. Which pleased me no end, as I'd been listening to Ludus only the other day. She currently has a dark bob hairdo, by the way.

By way of thanking the audience for not minding being unable to sing along to all the new songs, he finished with "There Is A Light That Never Goes Out", played for the first time since 1986, and the ultimate crowd pleaser for a Smiths fan. For <i>anyone</i>. Worth the price of admission alone, as the cliché goes.

Afterwards, I gatecrashed the aftershow party, something I haven't done for years (honest). The guest passes had an extremely homoerotic photo of a topless Adonis-like boxer from yesteryear. Which looked amusing attached to all the various mums and dads and other family members of Morrissey and the band that were milling backstage. Lots of Irish accents in the air. Refreshingly few industry types. A few alternative comedians, naturally. Sean Hughes. Harry Hill. Stewart Lee, who said hello. As did Jake Shillingford. Bernard Butler chatted to Boz Boorer. Probably about guitars and alliterative names.

Morrissey himself wasn't in the throng of liggers, apparently busy talking to his family elsewhere, so I whiled away an hour in the backstage bar area drinking with members of C33X and King Cheetah, saying hello to Blossom Wright, who is currently Mr Morrissey's PA, and who used to come to Club Skinny during The Romo Days. I also spoke to Alain Whyte. Turns out he knows about my old band, Orlando. The tour manager kept telling me "that's a… really…. <i>interesting</i> look you've got there…"

And so to bed. Alone, naturally.