Amazing Grace

Helena Fuckin' Christensen was sitting not too far away from me. A tiny thing, with scraggly black hair and a thuggish looking bf on her arm.

Nobody noticed. Nobody cared. I didn't.

Sinead O'Connor's prettier than any of the supermodels. God knows, she's a bigger ego on her too.

She rips up pictures. She's a priest. She's a lesbian. And then she isn't. She puts her foot in it. She stumbles, falls.

But when she sings, she soars.

In the lobby afterwards, my friend stood sipping his pint, trying to work up the courage to say hello to her, but never did. She was mingling, while the other artists sat at our table.

Sinead had phoned Maurice, Gavin's pianist, an hour before show time. 'Can you play backing for me? The songs are all on my last album.' Maurice didn't have the album. He picked up Gavin, who did. He popped the cd in the player and listened driving down to the venue. An hour later, he was playing the songs, backing Sinead, live on national radio.

This will never cease to amaze me.