IS THERE anything more ruddy British than thousands of resilient music lovers braving the kind of weather that would close a school just to watch the singer they love?

Picture the scene at Westonbirt Arboretum on Sunday night. Thousands of revellers huddled in raincoats and waterproof ponchos passing canapés and plastic glasses of prosecco around, apparently in complete ignorance of the rain.

One man I saw appeared content in his shorts and t-shirt, while another couple apparently thought nothing of bringing a table, chairs and even napkins to a festival.

And there’s nothing like driving rain to make you fell like you’ve earned your music.

After a short interlude by the young and talented Robyn Sherwell, the one and only Tom Jones arrived on the stage to a roar of approval from the crowd.

Whether the rain made him feel like he was home in his native Wales or if he wanted to thank his fans for sticking it out is unclear, but he gave a performance which had the crowd transfixed from the first to the last note.

The anthems he sung - and make no mistake, they are anthems - with the help of his fantastically talented band, pulled even the dampest music-lover off their canvas chairs and to their feet.

It was for all the world like he had been performing for half a century. Which, of course he has, since his first fledgling shows at Pontypridd in the early ‘50s.

But it was not the anthems that sold the show for me, it was the songs at marching pace, that allowed the 76-year-old’s voice to rip across the clearing and into the surrounding trees.

The Welsh star performed a couple of moving tributes to Elvis - whom he apparently knew well - slow numbers that proved his voice had not cracked and faded like wallpaper, but grown and matured like a long-lost port.

During the performance he even gave the crowd a glimpse of his past, saying his father’s side of the family came from just down the road near Tetbury before moving to Wales.

The rain had all but abated when Jones and his 10-piece band left the stage, but the crowd, though thoroughly soaked, called for more.

On the way out over the now-churned ground, excited fans recounted their best bits, with more than a few proclaiming it was the best (and wettest) concert they’d ever been to.

Below, crushed sadly into the ground, I saw a very, very wet canapé.