I was as giddy as a tartan-clad schoolgirl at a Bay City Rollers concert when it was announced that Butch Walker and the Black Widows were to be one of the support bands on the UK stadium jaunt by possibly the only pop star who I could lay claim to being cool while keeping a straight face, P!nk.

Ok, so it had just cost me £105 for two tickets (the wife was happy - all the girls love a couple of inflatables and a night out, right?) and it would mean several hours spent in the company of every single person who lives to type (in the fashion of a pre-schooler) Facebook comments on kittens holding guitars but, and this was the light at the end of my terror tunnel, I'd get to see Butch Walker and I love (and I mean L-U-V) Butch Walker.

So, to stadium gig day. We get there early - doors 5pm - to make sure that a good spot for the real main act is secured and, well, what greets us is a living nightmare. A pink-clad cadre of fake tanned, fake sunglasses wearing clods. There are lesbians in hilarious (and edgy, of course) 'I Could Turn Pink' t-shirts, there are groups of slappers in home-made event shirts that look like the cast-offs from a netball team's weekend in Blackpool that somehow manage to make the ominous 'Fake Merchandise' skull and crossbones warning on the ticket look a bit pointless. Oh, the ticket; I know that megastars who play stadiums like to rub Mother Nature's nose in it at every opportunity (201 trucks to move your last debacle of a stage, Mr Bono sir?) but was there really any need for my ticket to be almost ten inches long? Is this longer piece of paper somehow supposed to make me feel justified when I look at the large £45 slapped on it? On the subject of money, the gig came a day after the emergency budget from the new government supergroup and, as I look around, all I know is that the person who owns the Swansea shop that sells tacky hen night shit is the only person truly smiling today. Anyway, I had suddenly found myself in the audience for a taping of Loose Women and the stench of man-hate was burning my nostrils. But I was gonna see Butch Walker (you know the rest...).

I secure a slot about three rows from the front to the left of the stage. There is a huge walkway that juts out into the throng like the ultimate phallic symbol for the dayglo tutu wearing clowns to throw used tampons at so, while there are a hefty chunk of prime viewing spots missing, I'm happy with where I've ended up. Happiness turns to pain when I realise that I have to spend my time in close proximity to some local radio prick who keeps telling the proles that he "thinks he just saw a lady with pink hair enter the stadium" - this is retard speak for the blond-haired headliner. Hmmm. The idiot finally says that it is time for the first band and some fat virgin stood next to me (one of the rare males in view, with his mother and sister who I will get..err...closer to later) shouts "I haven't come to see the first band, I've come to see the last band" and everyone laughs like the world is dying and only laughter can save it. Hmm. Onto the stage walk the members of US indie boys Hockey and the virgin wails "oh my gawd" - they don't look like a boy band so I'm guessing he'll have no erection for the next half hour. Hockey, in a brave move, play their well known (to music fans) tune 'Song Away' first and their breezy brand of alterno-pop wins the attention of many in the rapidly filling stadium. One thing though; people stood nearer to stage centre than me are looking in the opposite direction watching the band on the video screen which, guess what, is as near to the pathetic punters as the singer from the fucking band is. Morons.

When the massive Black Widows backdrop is hauled into view, Fat Virgin exclaims "Gotta be rap" to his mother and sister and, baby Jesus please forgive me, I then made one of the gravest misdemeanours of my life; I accidentally touched the back of the sister. I know. The shame. She complains to her mother about this (although she is well into her thirties) and the brazen old hag that spewed these cracker spawn fucktards out of her body tells her to tell me to move....all within inches of my face. I, holding in a snigger, tell these beauties that I can hear every word that they are saying about me and then I get the "invading my personal space" lecture. Three rows from the front of a sold out stadium gig. I tell the lovely lady whose cheap shirt has now forever been tarnished that if she would only step forward into the gap that she is keeping (her personal space!) in front of her then I would never touch her again. As is always the case in events such as this, and I'm sure all you Über Röckers have experienced this, three rows from the front of a sold out stadium gig you keep someone's space for them when they continually go to the toilet like kids in a cinema. Always happens, doesn't it?!

I have a chuckle at this bollocks and ask the exclusion zone made flesh if she had ever been to a concert before and the poor fool seems so proud when she tells me that she went to see Guns N' Roses in 1991. One concert in nineteen years - this die hard knows her shit. My hearty guffaw makes the mother blabber some unintelligible nonsense that contains the F-word so I tell Zelda from Terrahawks (seriously, this old trollop looks like someone has stretched cheap leather over a dozen knuckles) that I would have dressed up if I knew such classy women were gonna be there. "You don't look like the kinda bloke who'd come to see Pink" she tells me and when I tell her that I haven't come to see Pink she seems kinda confused. I tell her that I've come to see Butch and motion towards the rap backdrop. My five letter word has trumped her four and she ain't happy. The son, in a very poor attempt at sticking up for his mother and sister, disappears to the toilet so, in keeping with the new concert rules, I go and stand in his fucking place and don't move. "Don't step on my toes, will you" comes a little voice from behind me. I look at a middle-aged woman in sensible concert footwear - open toe sandals - and tell her that I will give her a quid every time I step on her. I'm wearing my big fuck-off boots and for a few quid I can easily give her the chance to trump Sir Ranulph Fiennes in the padded sock department. But soon I'm gonna get to see Butch Walker.....

With no introduction Butch Walker walks onto the stage (at the ultimate rock 'n' roll time of 6:40pm), plugs in his guitar and starts playing 'Closer To The Truth And Farther From The Sky' with few people in my vicinity even knowing that the next act has arrived. The Black Widows walk onstage during the chorus and a huge cheer goes up - the crowd think the next band have come on even though we're into the next verse. The band add only minimum percussion to the song with Butch, now looking like the great Bruce Campbell, continuing as he began. Guitarist Fran Capitanelli, rocking one of the band's three moustaches, shakes something for the remainder of the song in a semi-comedic fashion and I get the feeling that the band have been having a lot of fun playing to audiences unfamiliar with them and their music on this European tour.

The only track to get an airing from the great 'I Liked It Better When You Had No Heart' album is up next. 'They Don't Know What We Know' is as subtle and seductive as on vinyl and, you know what, I'm loving this. I'm already lost in this music. Crowd troubles? When? Where? I wouldn't have second-guessed this opening duo of songs and I'm guessing that most Butch Walker aficionados reading this wouldn't have either. 'Ponce De Leon Ave.', the second of three tracks from the wonderful 'Sycamore Meadows', follows and, mid section, erupts into a feast of percussion with Butch playing a music stand at first, then moving onto the drum kit. How great are this band? Loose yet perfect, Butch's talk of this being a band rather than his band has finally been justified for any doubters in a live setting.

And if any further proof were needed, the incredible 'Best Thing You Never Had' is made even more incredible. With every band member (excluding the local guy who is guesting on sax tonight) taking at turn at lead vocals, this is possibly the greatest live version of a song that I have ever heard. Seriously, this is shiver-down-spine stuff. Absolutely stunning, with a major shout out to guitarist Chris Unck who played lap steel and, let's be honest, looked friggin' awesome doing it. Butch, struggling with a torn muscle after the previous week's show in Manchester, limps out onto the walkway, sits on the steps and breaks hearts. Awesome. This version of the song, in the ultimate two-fingered salute to the pressing need to cram your half hour stage time with as many hits as possible, lasts seven, maybe eight, glorious minutes.

Walker's notoriously charming banter has won over the crowd and, with just time for two more songs, he doesn't want to leave them on a sad note. He brings out his "little guitar" because "little guitar means party". 'The 3 Kids In Brooklyn' plays out in hugely entertaining fashion, with Unck now on bass, with more percussion and a perfectly timed mass comedy fall featuring the entire band. It's clear that they're having a blast on this tour, not taking themselves or the situations that they find themselves in too seriously. Final song and Butch is stripped down to his vest and braces and hanging into the crowd as the sexy 'Hot Girls In Good Moods' gets even the most clueless of attendees shaking a little booty.

And then it's over. A gloriously laidback performance that, seriously, turned a few orange-smeared heads. I leave my new friends at the front of the stadium and sadly make my way to the nearest merch stall. £20 for a Pink programme - let me think about that for a moment. Two Butch shirts and two free copies of the latest album later, I'm standing at the back of the stadium partaking in my favourite sport - people watching. I lose count of the number of times I mutter the word 'cunt' under my breath but, I do raise a deserved smile when a brainless woman in an evening gown falls flat on her face in front of me. Urban pop artist V.V. Brown has taken to the stage and is...err....cramming as many hits as possible into her half hour stage time. She plays a Coldplay song and continually shouts "Hello Cardiff" - this shit is like Hoffman's trip to the dentist in 'Marathon Man'.

It's starting to get dark so the hundreds of flashing bunny ears in the venue now look well worth the money paid for them by their outrageous owners. I know that Butch Walker is gonna be playing onstage with Pink later so, with dimwit detector set to stun, I take hold of a decent viewing position to the side of the stage, being careful not to touch anyone's back or allow a loose eyelash to land on someone's pink cowboy hat.

Pink's entry to the stage is, to be fair, pretty spectacular. She flies down to the walkway from a box suspended from a crane over the crowd like a contestant on the Late, Late Breakfast Show. There are flames, there is flying, there are great pop songs, there is a woman with a fantastic voice singing about flicking the bean. Butch appears and performs the song (that he co-wrote and produced) 'Mean' from Pink's 'Funhouse' album, and a medley of 'My Generation' (The Who were the last band that I saw in this venue, coincidentally) and Green Day's 'Basket Case'. 'Roxanne' by The Police follows and, as Pink scurries over the crowd in a giant hamster ball like a highly-stylised Zhu Zhu Pet, Butch is throwing shapes like the Southgang days, playing the guitar between his legs and generally unleashing that inner guitar hero that has been happily buried deep inside of him these past couple of decades.

As I walk out of the stadium, my phone finally comes back to life - a sad victim of signal blockage via over-abundance of fake tan. An unnamed Über scribe had sent me a text hours earlier asking if it was true that they were showing episodes of Big Brother and the Jeremy Kyle show between bands. I laugh the laugh of a thousand men as I stride into the night, secure in the knowledge that my first hen night was over. But there were no tears, no broken heels, no cheeky fingers up me - I felt that I had let down my fellow Pink fans. My only consolation being that I got to see Butch Walker....