Band leader Stuart Macbeth gives an artist’s eye-view behind the scenes of his big annual knees up at the O2 Academy

I’d like to take you behind the scenes. We’ll take a whistle-stop backstage tour at the O2 on Cowley Road. But before I reveal all about the Rabbit Foot Spasm Band’s annual knees up, I need to confide in you about last year’s event.

It started in high spirits. We had guest performances from blues shouter Julia Titus, and a 12-piece New Orleans brass band. Then near the end of the show a gifted singer came on, singing a spirited White Christmas – the kind of number you’d only pull out of the hat with a generous sense of humour. She sang beautifully. Then, half way through, dropped her cloak to reveal a flamboyant spandex outfit.

From its orifices she then proceeded to fire ping pong balls at the audience. A naughty balloon swung from her thigh. The audience leapt and cheered loudly.

So did I. Packed into three phenomenal minutes, here was everything I want from live entertainment. It was funny, provocative and spilling out with talent.

I rushed to the general manager’s office the minute we’d finished God Save the Queen, paying to book the venue for the next year.

The following morning, two thirds of the band quit. I was flabbergasted by the uproar over the naughty balloon. It was a step too far, they commented drily. We signed up to play musical instruments, not to have ping pong balls fired out at us from a large bra. And they added that there could be professional repercussions from being associated with the questionable circus that had sprung from my diseased imagination.

I knew they had a point. After a year of cautious negotiation, and promises that it wouldn’t happen again, they all returned up the narrow back staircase at the O2 – looking scared.

There are three dressing rooms at the O2. Dressing room one has a wall mounted plasma TV, leather sofas and two showers. We were in dressing room two. Imagine the waiting room at Gloucester Green bus station scaled down to accommodate The Smurfs, and you have the picture.

There’s a bashed up fridge, a power point with no power, and a lavatory cubicle in one corner. The sole window is broken from what appears to have been a gunshot. The two factions of the band sat there, staring each other out in silence, heading for a showdown.

Meanwhile the posters and flyers we had delivered in advance had been accidentally mislaid. Much of my evening was spent dispatching last minute flyers to disinterested passersby, and making trips to Classic Wines on Cowley Road to stock up on drinks. We had 34 performers over the course of the evening, all thirsty.

Finally we walked past the high-vis jacketed security guard and up the narrow grey steps to the stage. Out there was a room full of people under coloured light. They clapped when we appeared, as though we were something important. It’s always nice when that happens. The guys did a terrific show.

While pretending to perform, I secretly surveyed the rest of the band to check no-one was getting cross, or likely to storm off. None did, and their performances were flawless. It must have inspired confidence that none of the guests stripped off, and swearing was kept to a minimum. And so it remained, until they had all packed up their gear and left for the night. From then on, things started to get exceedingly messy.