THE old (The Buzzcocks), the new (60 Ft Dolls), the borrowed (The Wildhearts) and the blue (Iggy Pop with his constant refrain of "fuck off Finsbury Park") had all done their bit to shake, rattle and roll the 30,000 audience before the grotesque, unprecedented, bizarre and unbelievable happened: John Lydon, followed by Steve Jones, Glen Matlock and Paul Cook came crashing through a massive newsprint backdrop and spoke unto us - "Welcome to our little party" said Lydon and a few beats on the bass drum later, they were playing Bodies. When Lydon started to pogo half way through, the poignancy of it all became too much for punks old and new.

It was the sheer relief: the fact that they hadn't split up backstage, that they didn't look as fat and horrible as you imagined them to be and that the songs they were playing still meant as much to you now as they did then. And they were funny too: "I'm Fat, I'm Forty and I'm Back," shouted Lydon, "fancy having a singalong with your Uncle Johnny on this little ditty called Submission", but we demurred when Steve Jones made his only spoken contribution, inquiring if "anyone out there fancies a shag".

Running through most of the material from Never Mind The Bollocks, they were playing - mostly note for note renditions of their greatest hits, the only discernible differences from 1978 being that Paul Cook's drum sound was a lot rawkier and that Matlock and Jones were actually getting the vocal harmonies right. The first hit of the night was God Save The Queen and a veritable karaoke session occurred when Lydon got to the line about "No future". A stunning version of Holidays In The Sun left us in no doubt that this reunion business (and we stress the word business) wasn't such a bad idea after all.

The Sex Pistols aren't sad old gits running through their golden oldies, they are a damn fine rock n roll band, part of our heritage and living history. Like it or not.