Those little things that get on my nerves #2

Went to a lovely concert tonight. The ever excellent SCO at home in Glasgow City Hall. A tasty, filling little diet of Philip Glass and John Adams, always right up my street, especially the welcome dissonance of Adams' Chamber Symphony, a glorious racket taking me right back to the days of my old Arnold loading the latest "classic" from ye olde cassette and the big yin here humming along with ten minutes of speed write 0 data transfer before, say, Roland In Time kicks in. Beautiful. Ahem...anyway, that's all well and good. What wasn't/isn't/will never be so clever is the endless flippin' coughing and retching polluting the collective airspace during every single "serious" music concert I've ever been to or, in fact, have ever even heard on the bloody radio...

Frankly, it is truly, truly awful and I can't imagine how bad it must be for the poor performers up there on stage or in the pit. A full jarring, noises on re-enactment of the Somme performed with improvised phlegm solos by the bucket load at every single break between movements. Those tossers don't even have the basic wherewithal to even try and mask their fetid hacking up during the loud fucking bits - they actually wait 'til the silences to launch into their sputum barrage. Now don't get me wrong, there are a fair few oldsters in the audience at these things, plenty of denizens of the undead with the full Savini slap who would make even Uncle Mex look like a healthy, well developed young specimen. I can just about turn the other way when they are giving their lungs the old Highland clearance. It's the rest of the ignorant bar stewards who have no excuses, none at all.

Old Mexy here has been through thirty years of chronic catarrh, the odd bout of bronchitis as well as an ongoing battle with asthma (not helped by living in Ice Station Zebra). Anyone who has known me long enough will verify that I have pretty much had a persistent cold since, oh, around some time in 1975. And yet, somehow, I can manage to go to a concert, arrive on time, sit down AND SHUT THE FUCK UP FOR THE DURATION WITHOUT CHUCKING MY FUCKING GUTS UP. So how do I manage it ??? Hmm, it ain't that hard, really. Maybe not being a complete ignoranus gives me an unfair advantage. Grrr....I tell ya, they want fucking shooting, the lot of 'em.

While I'm here, sod it, I'll put the boot into another of my favourite species. The big man is the archetypal nervous wreck about being on time for things. I always turn up well in advance, especially for the movies. I'm normally first one in the place so I can pick my seat (Woody Allen, back row centre, screen one, GFT), read my paper and dispose of my munchies in good time before the picture starts. I have only ever breached this when in the company of norms but that is obviously only under duress - and frankly I usually don't have that problem when going to see some 1935 black and white Polish B-movie or suchlike.

Anyway, so far so neurotic. However, there is another breed of person who doesn't seem to be able to even use a watch or read a clock, and seems to have absolutely no problem with missing the first ten minutes of the thing he's paid good money to see. Okay, okay, I know it happens - folk miss connections, are busy bumping gums, forget the time, et cetera. I can accept that. What I can't accept is that these sausage jockeys generally seem to be utterly unperturbed by their (re-)tardiness, and generally spend the first five minutes on entering the theatre looking for the optimum seat when they should be simply fucking grateful for being allowed in at all in the first place and make a bee line for the one nearest their sorry ass.

Of course, a further five minutes is inevitably wasted with them standing up, taking off their jackets and coats whilst persistently blocking the view of those poor patient patrons who have got there IN DAMN GOOD TIME only to be treated with such knob-ish contempt by dullards. Even more minutes are then spent dicking around with their preposterously illuminated mobile phones instead of simply pressing the bloody "off" button like good considerate citizens (urgh, mobile phones... must... resist... lengthy... digression.. into... apocalypse... of... fury).

However, the pièce de résistance for me is when said feckless felchers suddenly decide that, actually, yes, they would like something from the sweet stall (BTW, I blame that bastard advert in the bigger chains saying "Ladies and Gentlemen, there is still time to buy snacks and drinks" for this - NO, THERE ISN'T "STILL TIME", YOU'VE HAD PLENTY OF TIME BEFORE THE PROJECTOR KICKED OFF, SIT DOWN ON YOUR FAT ARSE AND SHUT THE FUCK UP). Of course, when they come back from said snack vendor, a whole new circle of hell opens up for everyone as we put up with their fuckwitted paper rustling and their hotdogs odious odours for the duration of the film. If you're really unlucky, a sub-strata of this archetype spend most of the rest of the movie explaining the fine detail of the plot to their bovine spouses... okay, maybe the Seventh Seal has a panoply of lovingly crafted existential nuances which are hard to catch at first pass but Tallageda fucking Nights? Hmm, methinks you fine people oughta have stayed in to watch Celebrity Big Brother, you ignorant fuckwits. Please, somebody push them towards Chuck.

Jeez, I really am feeling pretty damn misanthropic today (just today???) - had better take a wee lie down and stick on Music for Airports...aahhh, deep breaths. Feeling better already.


There you go. Two moans for the price of one. Champion. I was going to go for the hat trick but cyclists will be getting the size twelves in a post of their own at some later date. Too much bile to be shared at this one sitting I'd wager...

Made with the help of -

1. Genesis "A Trick of the Tail" - Christ, I had to finally admit it and confess that I really, genuinely like loads of their seventies stuff. Gentle, eccentric prog with some quirky pop sensibilities creeping in here and there, especially just after Peter G left. Throw stones at me if it makes you feel better. Don't know whether anyone will ever excuse me going to see them this summer... (aww naw, big man, how could you let that slip out in a public place ???)

2. Kling Klang "The Esthetik of Destruction" - This is pretty damn special IMHO. Feels to me like glorious, slow droning doom metal as played by Kraftwerk instead of you know who. Like Saint Vitus playing instrumentals only with Jon Lord on keys replacing Dave Chandler's guitar. Heard them on Peelie's show (R.I.P.) years ago and its taken me this long to get around to getting into them.