[Mr Scarrott]

There was, at least for me, a great feeling of catharsis. Even had I known of Fleetwood Mac #10 in 1980 I would have been too young to have gone to see them, mystified as I would have been by Tusk. When I did become a fan in 1987 I was pretty downhearted when I learned that Lindsey had quit- so much so that I couldn't summon up the enthusiasm to see the re-moulded band on the two following tours. No offence to Vito and Burnette, but it didn't feel like a continuation of the legend. Then I compared the dull blandness of Behind the Mask to the sonic beauty of Out of the Cradle and despaired, not only, that I would never see the full line-up live but that the band had lost a vital creative spark.

The semi-live Clinton inauguration was the act of a capricious God teaming up with his infernal opposite number to taunt us. The pot pourri of Time with a contractually-obligated and semi-detached Christine seemed to play the joke two steps too far. Then there was the brief hope and hoopla of the Dance and I was crushed again when our English girl wouldn't tour her homeland, where she promptly retired, and occasional out-of-focus photos would emerge of her in the papers, walking her dogs. In the meantime did not seem to presage anything that put her back on stage with the four others that I did go and see on tour. They were great and gothic, arty and argumentative, but I always left those gigs with a real sense of loss. I just felt doomed that I had been born at a time that was as synchronised as possible with future Fleetwood Mac personnel crises.

So yes, when a clearly delighted and animated Christine McVie got on that stage that night ten years ago, my fandom felt complete. Yes, she only sang the lead on one verse on a throwback quasi-bluesy stomp, but it was if everyone's favourite auntie had fortified herself with a sweet sherry at Christmas and went full tilt at the ivories, just for old time's sake. Each of the five looked at each other and I looked at the five. A perfect moment, indeed.