"Bristol, it's fucking hot up here" I don't know about you, but I never expected the sweet-voiced writer of so many heart-achingly honest popsongs to resort to expletives quite so early in the show. But everyone appreciates the informality, and under the hanging seventies-style lamps of his set and with thick persian rugs underfoot, you could see why, by the end, James Morrison's tshirt had a crest of darker grey pooled on either side, and he was visibly gasping for breath in between songs. The strutting must have had something to do with it, too- the skulking from end to end of the stage in tight jeans and leather jacket while his masterful guitarist picked out a solo or an extended introduction to a song. The swings back and forth while hitting the strings of his own acoustic guitar, or the draws of emotion from his neck during the moodier numbers. Morrison drew a strange mixture of people last night, from people out with their friends like me to tho