Was it just us, or was last night brighter than usual? Amidst the rain, wind and darkness, a flash of colour shone through the bleak London night sky – all thanks to Rihanna and her magical, multicoloured pants.

Like the star in the heavens that led the three wise men to Bethlehem, gifts in hand, to celebrate the birth of top-notch carpenter and world's greatest nepotism beneficiary Jesus Christ over 2000 years ago, the myriad hues of Rihanna's specially-constructed hot pants shone out across our capital city.  We felt ourselves possessed by a strange fever – a holy desire, almost – to be nearer to those pants. We knew there was only one thing to do.

Rihanna onstage at the O2 arena in London
Rihanna's hot pants are worshipped as a deity in more than 70 countries worldwide 

We mounted our camels and set out North across the moors of Tooting Common, heading for our new spiritual home of the O2 arena from whence the light shone forth. On the way we found some shepherds talking to an angel about Rihanna's latest album and how they should totally pick it up because it was great, but we were too busy to chat to any mythical entities. We had some pants to follow.

A long trek later – and several taxis, after many complained that our camels were simply too big and too smelly to transport for very long – we reached the arena, and heard within the sound of music and praise, and saw shining in the air the glow of those hot pants. And the doorman spake thus:

“Sorry, mate, sold out.”

Rihanna onstage at the O2 arena in London
Great wars have been fought over arguments whether they're hot pants or, heretically, "booty shorts." We know where we stand - we're hotpantestants all the way

We're not supposed to be turned away, we said, insistently. That's for whoever's taking the role of Mary and Joseph in this increasingly-tortured nativity analogue. We have gifts, though – Terry's Gold Chocolates, some incense we purchased off a man who assured us his name was Frank, and myrrh. We couldn't come up with even a bad joke about myrrh, so we had to pop down to myrrh-r-us and buy some. Let us in, please!

The doorman remained steadfast in his refusal, so we made do with laying down our gifts at the foot of the arena's wall and consoling each other with hugs. Maybe next year we'll get to see the majesty of Rihanna's pants up close, and not just emblazoned across the night sky. Maybe.