The Pogues were late. Apparently and somehow appositely, somebody had thrown beer over the mixing desk. Beer stops play: needless to say, this has not yet happened at a Katie Melua concert. Morale was further undermined when they did arrive.

Immediately, Grumpy Pogue, Jem Finer, launched a prim diatribe against the "tosser" responsible for the delay. The Pogues whingeing about drunken behaviour?

If Finer were Pope, doubtless he'd moan about nuns being overly Roman Catholic. Unsurprisingly, after Finer's outburst, the evening took its time to blossom into the joyful London Irish celebration it was destined to be.

Once fertile and prolific songwriters, The Pogues are now a nostalgia act, albeit one which binds the Irish diaspora like no other. Whether they succeed depends upon Pete Doherty's role model, singer Shane MacGowan, Shambolic Pogue.

The good news is that he is clearly alive and steadier on his feet than I've seen him for years. The bad news is that the man can barely speak (think the Spitting Image version of Roy Hattersley crossed with Elmer Fudd, muttering in Hungarian) let alone sing.

Sometimes, especially on a Pair Of Brown Eyes, MacGowan's decay was heartbreaking; at others I couldn't decipher what song he was attempting.

In brutal truth, no Pogue appeared to actually like their audience, although it must have seemed like trying to engage with several hundred drunken pub bores. Yet, despite their taciturnity, there were moments when they soared.

Sung by Earnest Pogue Philip Chevron and dedicated to their former collaborator Kirsty MacColl who died six years ago today, Thousands Are Sailing remains a stirring emigration saga, even if the cause of those fleeing Ireland has evolved from famine to potential feast.

Better still, MacGowan's voice improved (although, short of him actually barking it could have hardly have got worse) on a stirring Dirty Old Town, the still staggering Rainy Night In Soho and, inevitably, Fairytale Of New York.

This drunkard's tale has eased its way into the national psyche as a Christmas carol of our age. With MacColl dead and Absent Pogue Cait O'Riordan elsewhere, Finer's admirable daughter Emma-Jane assumed the female role.

As the fake snow fell and she led MacGowan in a slow, stumbling dance across stage, the crowd hollered along, drunken men danced with other drunken men and it felt like Christmas had finally arrived. And not a moment too soon.