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Public Service Warning: This post may contain high levels of repressed adolescent levels of hysteria and general incoherency due to lack of sleep.

I didn't think it was possible to love Take That anymore than I did but I can confirm that my passion for the Fab (Formerly Five) Four has truly gone stratospheric. There was singing! And dancing! (At one point, in the rain! As Smash Hits would surely exclaim, "Swoon!") Also: saucy tango dancing in a sexed-up version of It Only Takes A Minute (n.b. although Gary Barlow is a songwriting genius, he is definately not cut out for flinging svelte Argentinian temptresses about. In the future, please leave all the fancy dancing to Howard Donald and Jason Orange. Thankyou.) Even more thrillingly, there was a section with ridiculous space-age tracksuits (in the grand tradition of boy band stage shows. I refer you to 911's tour in which they donned white dungarees emblazoned with tyre tracks) that was a meta-commentary on the manufactured boy bands. Hurrah! Perhaps even better, there were scary S&M dominatrix dancers, trapeze artists, lions and tigers (oh my!) during the Relight My Fire routine. Oh and also the twin foghorn talents of Lulu (no longer ginger and definately a beard for Jason Orange) and Beverley Knight (sporting less clothing than I ever wish to see her in again):



Unfortunately, due to our terrible time management skills and navigational disasters (damn you AA Route Planner), we ended up missing the Sugababes. Boo. As we were walking down into the Milton Keynes Bowl, we caught the last few songs of their set and I must say, I thoroughly approve of the fabulously monikered Amelle Berrabah. We walked into range of the stage just as Heidi was chirpily wishing the crowd a fabulous evening and waving goodbye. Even though we were fortunate enough to have Gold Circle tickets we arrived too late to snag a good spot, so we were resigned to standing at the side of the stage, which would have probably been fine if I was taller than a Shetland pony. However, most disturbing event of the evening was not missing My Favourite Girlband...EVER and but the discovery that I have cultivated quite a crush on Gary Barlow (i.e. the Least Fanciable Member of Take That). Here's a lovely picture of him:



The saddest thing? I still find him attractive in that outfit. Fear not dear readers, once I secure my Doctor Who catch up tape from Meg, all celebrity crush energy will be transferred back onto the Right Honorable Tennant. Woof. Anyway, I am firmly converted back to the old Thatter ways and will promptly be scrawling the TT logo on my arm, testing out all the members' surnames with my own name and snogging my posters before bedtime.

Onto more pressing matters - namely the greatly anticipated Hilton Muffin Theft. Myself and Lindsey had formulated a cunning plan in which I drove to Milton Keynes and we stayed in the Hilton in order to get thoroughly gin-soaked before the concert and also to take full advantage of the legendary Hilton breakfast. We had arrived fully prepared with vodka, ginger ale and fruit bags from Sainsbury's to secrete away muffins, pastries, jam, cheese and bread rolls from the breakfast buffet. After cramming our faces with as much food as humanely possible (one fruit salad, various pastries each, a pot of tea and a full English breakfast) we snuck up to the breakfast bar under the cover of greed and proceeded to sweep the contents of our bulging plates into our handbags in a nonchalant manner as possible. I wandered downstairs earlier to find that someone else had eaten the blueberry muffin and croissant that I had pilfered (damn and blast!) but my mini-pot of Muller Light, mini cheeses and packets of shortbread are still in tact.

Lindsey's neighbours had invited her to a birthday barbecue for their adorably named child, Maximillian but at 4pm, we were still too full from our breakfast blowout. The family in question were very much the organic-eating, ethnic-robe wearing, Guardian-reading people that inhabit the nicer bits of south-east London and the spread was mainly vegetarian (think lots of carrot batons and things with beans in them) and being a bit hungover, all I was craving was a hunk of brie and a can of coke. So instead, I had a glass of pink champagne whilst affecting interest in their drones about children, mortgages and traffic. Needless to say, apart from the children, I was the youngest person there so I persuaded Lindsey to make a hasty exit as I was in danger of gnawing off my own arm and beating myself about the head with my dismembered limb to alleviate the boredom. I left Lindsey's with tapes of Project Runway and Lost and back issues of Heat and Elle which have kept me quite happily occupied all evening. To add to an already blissful weekend, I arrived home to post! Namely the Goodness Gracious Me boxset that I had ordered on Friday and a hand-written missive and two mix-cds from Stuart. I think I've still not really caught up on my sleep so I very much anticipate my day tomorrow being taken up with the important tasks of lazing about in bed watching a stackload of DVDs and listening to the A to Z of Pop. Hoorah.

I've had some rather odd comments made to me over the weekend. We were stopped by two men at the Take That concert who asked whether we were "going to the opera dressed like that". One woman chastised some girls for pushing in front of us in the toilet queue as she assumed that one of us was pregnant. Then, when I went to the supermarket on the way home today, the cashier asked me how old I was out of curiousity. When I informed her that I had indeed reached the haggard and decrepit age of 22 she informed me that I looked barely 18. It worries me when people are overly nice to me in shops, there's something very unsettling about a complete stranger trying to be nice to you. Perhaps I'm just being a typical Londoner and people who live in friendlier (i.e. further north) bits of the country feel differently? Whilst you puzzle over that dilemma dear readers, I leave you with some more photos from Saturday night. Pip pip.