Benton writes:

A lazy review by James Delingpole from the Sunday Telegraph 22nd September 2002

Catching gladioli is not enough

Rarely have I seen the touts looking so depressed. "I can hardly give them away," said the man outside the Albert Hall clutching a sheaf of unsold Morrissey tickets. For a tenner I could have got a ringside seat; for £20, the right to stretch my arms adoringly upwards in the mosh pit with all the hardcore fans. If hardcore is the mot juste for polite late thirtysomethings wearing cropped Mozza-style quiffs and waving bunches of gladioli.
Whatever, a tenner seemed a small amount to pay to see the former leader of the most revered, quoted and mythologised band of the Eighties. Especially given that he hasn't played these shores in over five years, preferring to hang out in Los Angeles exile, driving his Porsche, lunching with Michael Stipe and generally worshipping his own company.

So what I was hoping to be able to write, being quite a fan myself (both of his Smiths stuff and of solo masterpieces such as Vauxhall & I), is that the rightful king of English indie music had returned to claim his crown and that those who were not there to witness it should for ever think themselves accursed.

Sadly it was not to be. Excuse me if I sound as petulant as Morrissey here, but when you haven't got a record deal, let alone a new album to promote, and when you're playing a comeback gig before the very most loyal among your supporters, surely the least you can do in return is to treat everyone to all those classics you grew sick of playing, but what the hell, this is a special occasion?

But Morrissey, capricious as ever, refused to play the game. We got three Smiths tracks; the odd dreary-ish single (Every Day is Like Sunday, etc) from his solo period; and far, far too much Morrissey-by-numbers new material in which only the most masochistically prostrate fan could possibly feign any interest. Sludgy sound production and bargain basement lighting didn't much help.

What made his behaviour all the more cruel and unforgivable is that when he wants to, he can still deliver. His banter is gloriously catty; his nonchalantly-catching-gladioli skills remain unsurpassed; and his larynx is in amazing fettle: even when it has to go up an octave for his Smiths numbers, he still hits all the notes beautifully.

Oh, and during Meat Is Murder, his dying cow impression is the best I've seen.