Were I a singer - and, as anyone within spitting distance of my shower knows, this is a moot fantasy - who had pond hopped to heap my stuff upon the Yanks and was holding my London homecoming gig, I'd choose to host it at the Scala.

It's the Goldilocks of music venues, the perfect place for the intimate gig to let me, sorry, one, humbly connect with adoring, fawning, welcoming fans.

So, Wembley's prodigal daughter Lady Sovereign, returning from a Stateside stint brandishing a Def Jam record contract with ink still moist from Jay-Z's pen, got that part right, at least.

Once Killa Kela had beat-boxed up her stage, her DJ Frank hurled garage-tipped, ragga dubstep and drum & bass at the excitable, furry parka-saturated crowd.

Front row fervour reached pant-wetting peaks when their pint-sized starlet - real name Louise Harman - periodically peeked out, waving from the wings, hauled back by frustrated management.

But when the self-proclaimed "biggest white midget in the game" scampered out in sunnies, trackie bums ("they're too big for me"), and ankle-swinging T-shirt ("it's too big for me"), clutching mike and bottle of Becks, even Scala seemed too big for the grime-rapping tomboy who played New Year's Eve's Times Square Party to one million people.

"Es-Oh-Vee" launched drowsily into her set, her chavvy lyrical humour coupled with scintillating thumping, bumping, chunky krunk hip-hop basslines.

But her delivery was a painful contrast, omitting words, tipping incy-wincy ears to a lifeless crowd, pleading with them to rap along to lines they clearly didn't know.

Lines that were obviously intended for American ears - particularly My England which discloses that Brits don't all play croquet and eat scones with Tony and Liz.

Said lyrics were, moreover, indistinguishable under a barrage of Sov's pre-recorded voice, messy feedback and the sound of her liver squealing out in agony as she threw yet another pint down her tiny gullet.

"F*** I'm drunk as well as stupid. Let's go. F*** it. Let's do it then", she slurred, staring at the ground, both she and large swathes of the crowd apathetic as to whether she continued or not.

"Struggling along, struggling along. F***. Let's go," she gurgled through a swig of something brown.

At least we were all struggling together.