The Bellville Velodrome is not the most inviting of concert venues at the best of times. On this chilly windswept Cape evening it resembles a burned out shell of an East German doorknob factory. The acoustics are atrocious and the uneven floorboards in the oversized golden circle make it difficult to bounce around.

Despite these drawbacks, the grin on my face is almost as inane and wide as the one on the performer’s. When rapper 50 Cent takes the stage looking like a spastic gummy bear, there’s little need for impressive technicalities or acrobatic shenanigans. This is an exercise in mass hysteria.

50 hasn’t got the charisma of mentor Eminem or the laid-back nonchalance of Snoop, but how many hip-hop concerts boast an audience that can reel off line after line? Admittedly this is not for purists; there were more thirteen-year-old girls wearing lean and hungry looks than grizzly street poets in attendance.

As bubblegum as they come then, but for the strategic placement of a few "muthaf***ers" and the big man’s drug-dealing bullet-absorbing past.

In a third SA appearance, 50 and G-Unit cohorts Tony Yayo and Lloyd Banks pelt an adoring audience with catchy hook after catchy hook, running through an extensive collection of hit tracks at breakneck pace, all the while pelting the crowd with freebies.

Such is the wealth of material that they leave perennial riot starter 'In da Club' till the very end, long after 'Candy Shop', 'P.I.M.P', 'Hate It Or Love It', and personal favourite, the machismo-soaked anthem, 'If I Can’t Do It (It Can’t Be Done)'. Current steaming single 'Ayo Technology', complete with Justin Timberlake chorus and Timbaland beats, goes down a treat as can be expected, and 50 has the punters eating out of his hand with 'What Up Gangsta?'. The man’s energy is tangible and he gives full value, in what is a truly mammoth set.

His efforts more than make up for the lack of a credible supporting act. Local duo Kold Produk toiled admirably to get the crowd in the groove, but only really hit it off when inciting group "f**k yeah!" sessions. And the appeal of the glorified stripper’s lithe writhing quickly turned into revulsion when she began to sing.

How can one resist a sequined New York cap? Why is this old, bearded roti vendor calling me "nigga"? Why did I choose to go into the media when I could have been a pimp? Such philosophical meanderings were best left for another time as I gave vent to the mindless salivating mayhem and began chanting "G-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g Unit". Group therapy at its finest.