Bastards that Piss on your Bonfires

You might have noticed that like most people I vacillate between doggy-paddling in the quicksand of morose cynicism and shuffling my soul in bouts of pants-soaking delight. For all that I lace my glass of dislike with a vial of vicious self-righteous disgust and hostility, when I like something a lot, I LOVE it. And that means that anyone who spoils my beautiful and gleeful moments of adoration should have all of their human rights suspended just long enough for me to exact revenge with the sort of fury and rage that would make the gods of ancient Greece feel slightly uncomfortable to witness.

This is why I refuse to go to the cinema. I like to immerse myself in a film. Without distraction. But cinemas INVITE distraction. They market themselves at the Pavlov’s Dogs section of society, who brainlessly allow themselves to be conditioned into associating the watching of a film with the desire to eat and drink. It’s never lunch time or dinner time and yet the moron-neurons are ignited by the sight of hilariously over-priced and over-sized buckets of popcorn and carbonated kids’ pop in the foyer; so they roll up with their “Fleece me and Feed Me – I’m a Flid” faces on, purchase a wholesaler’s lorry-load of crap and set up snack-camp in the auditorium.

Ironically, the pre-film trailers and information announcements include a plea to turn off your mobile in case it disturbs the enjoyment of others. After all, you wouldn’t want to punctuate the crunching and slurping and chewing and general fidgety fucking about of the thoughtless cinema snack-fiends with the chiming of a text, would you?

Fortunately, I only love a few films and can usually wait many months before one that I want to see appears on Sky Box Office and can be viewed without the pernicious penetration of my personal space by some popcorn-hoovering prick sitting a straw’s length from me.

But with music, it’s a whole different matter. I don’t play it at home unless the family are out, because Mrs Bastard and Child 2 (female variety) are both likely to walk into the lounge and slice through my soul-swept trance of “at-oneness-with-the-universe” with a casual nuke-bomb of a question such as, “What’s THIS?” Which really means “What’s this shit?” At that very moment my universe collapses, I can listen to no more and I want to set fire to all my CDs in sulky protest at this cold stabbing of my spirit.

So, I listen to my CDs in the car. And even though the roads are populated by the same breed of self-absorbed selfish cunts as cinemas, my encounters with them might be equally unsettling but they are at least usually fleeting. Moreover, I tend to enjoy recompense through some petty method of counter-irritating the bastards of the road in a way that is not possible with the bastards of the cinema. So, I enjoy and LOVE listening to my music in the car; and by MY music I mean the CD I have chosen to play and NOT the radio. NEVER the radio. That’s like inviting the wankers in, that is.

The problem is that when you become completely caught up in the music of a particular band or artist and you go to see them in concert, you want... sorry, “I” want... to listen to them with the same undisturbed concentration as I do in the car. I admit, I AM being a little precious here. But my favourite artists are not the ones who belt out sing-a-long anthems in football stadia, nor are they the ones who invite you to SAY YEAH and WAVE YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR or even sing-a-long. (OK, singing along to some tunes is appropriate.) No, the gigs I end up at are in small or middle sized venues and usually have a smattering of quieter ballads that wrench at your heart with an agonizing beauty...

Unless some cunt is talking.

What is it with people who talk through quiet songs at gigs? GO TO THE FUCKING PUB AND TALK, YOU SOCIALLY UNAWARE RETARDS!

Now, I’m quite aware that I must be coming across ever so slightly misanthropic. I’m not. I like people. But I kind of want the bastards nowhere near me when I’m trying to enjoy myself. So, if anyone knows of a restaurant with 10 metre gaps between tables, a beach with a “first-on-only-on” rule, a pub with a “no wankers” sign outside or a tourist attraction with no tourists, then please tell me where it is.

And I’ll go along with some crisps and a beer and sit there shouting YEAH with my hands in the air.