New Order at Wembley Arena

MOMENTS in love when love is not a three-ring circus but a fork-tongued serpent, when bliss rhymes with lice and diandry is a girl's best friend. This was astonishingly, gratifyingly, abominably perfect. This was New Order at their best, worst and nowhere in between. They were slovenly and majestic, apathetic and intense, and it took the shackles off as many heads as it jaywalked over. Albrecht, lovable obstreperous sarcastic bastard cutey-pie Albrecht, mutters something about "Bon voyage" and serenades sophistry with something else about "the perfect kiss is the kiss of death". I start formulating theories about how this is New Order's farewell gig, but you would have to verify this fantasy with someone who wasn't so shaken by the shoulders and stimulated. I was glued to it, and well away.