Last night at Phibbers, a big punky lady spotted me from downstairs and came up to join in. She sat at the back, singing along loudly as soon as she'd picked up the gist. 'Can I jam with you?' she yelled over.
She made her way over to the stage area and joined me there. 'Can I jam with you?', she shouted again, lager glass in hand.
The promoter very gently coaxed her away and took her downstairs again.
I could hear her all the way through the rest of the set, bellowing away in the distance, still singing along at the top of her voice.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Transcribing Again
I have been driven close to tears, hearing how a musician's boyfriend made her leave her successful band through his jealousy, and then undermined her playing so much that she gave up altogether.
The worst thing anyone has told me so far is a partner's attempt to break her fingers so she couldn't play guitar any more.
Yet the party line is that girls just aren't interested in playing in rock bands, it's a Boy Thing.
A Bullying and Intimidation Thing, actually.
The worst thing anyone has told me so far is a partner's attempt to break her fingers so she couldn't play guitar any more.
Yet the party line is that girls just aren't interested in playing in rock bands, it's a Boy Thing.
A Bullying and Intimidation Thing, actually.
Monday, August 09, 2010
Phibbers, Islington
I am playing tonight at Phibbers, 203 Holloway Road. N7 8DL
Onstage at 9.30
Door price £3.00
Onstage at 9.30
Door price £3.00
Sunday, August 08, 2010
Bard-Aid in Camden
The gig lasted all day, and was held upstairs at the Camden Eye, a pub that is negotiated by pushing a channel through the sea of pissed young people that swarm around Camden Tube station at weekends.
Up the steep stairs that are hemmed in by nattily-tiled walls, the Kissing Lounge hosted a warm and friendly crowd who lounged on an assortment of odd chairs, jumbled together in a peaceful end-of-Saturday bonhomie.
I found a corner to slot myself into and listened to the quirky jazz of Paul's band, which sounded like a cross between ABC (except Paul has a much nicer voice than the frightening warbling of whats-his-name) and Michael Garrick's band (he was a 1970s oddball English jazz bandleader whose vinyl recordings currently command phenomenal sums on eBay). I liked their music; I am very fond of the alternative universe and this band would not have been out of place in the bar in the original Star Wars film (above).
It was my turn next, and the head-turning Green Gretsch turned heads; I loved the audience, who were a perfect mix of ages, styles and smiles. One group was noshing their way through their tea (chicken and chips out of polystyrene containers). Other supped pints of lager or drank cans of Red Stripe. It was hot and sweaty, not good singing weather, but I abandoned my miserable songs and sang the uppy songs instead. People tapped legs, fingers, and I was told, bums along to Loverman.
This was probably my favourite gig in terms of atmosphere and audience this year. Maybe apart from the WIld Hare Club with JCC and Don Letts...
I also have invented a new way with set lists- a paper luggage label tied to a machine-head of the guitar.
It does the trick brilliantly! You don't need to bend down to peer at the floor, it's there at the end of you guitar neck ready for you to refer to or ignore as the mood takes you. You could have a selection, with different set lists on them....
Lovely gig, and thanks to Paul for inviting me. It is nice to feel appreciated at a gig!
LA Salami had a good night too and I am looking forward to being on the bill with him at the 12 Bar on the 23rd August.
I had wanted him to play at one of my nights of new songs, which I had to abandon because people got cross when I didn't invite them to play (it was one night, and I was planning more, and the cross people were going to be invited to play, but I got put off).
The other Rrrants events look good: I will certainly be going along to another.
Their website is www.rrrants.com
Saturday, August 07, 2010
Gig Tonight, 7th August
It's right next to Camden Tube, 2 Kentish Town Road: The Camden Eye
It's organised by the Rrrants Collective and has already started
It costs £5.00 for an all-day ticket
... and I am on at 8 p.m.
It's organised by the Rrrants Collective and has already started
It costs £5.00 for an all-day ticket
... and I am on at 8 p.m.
Customising Old Age Prospects
From time to time, like most people, I contemplate Being Old.
A few weeks ago, I spotted the Perfect Old Lady.
She was driving an vintage Morris Traveller in cream with a red leather interior. Its woodwork and bodywork were immaculate.
She sat smiling and serene inside, a vision of cloudy white hair and scarlet lipstick: every wrinkle in place, neat little hands clasping the wheel, feminine and sweet.
In the rear seats of her car were two stylish tartan rugs and in the very back, a turntable.
'I want to be her!' I exclaimed inwardly, 'Yes, please, that's me in the future!'
I was delighted with my choice and carried on with the journey.
A while later that day while I was waiting at a bus stop, an Old Gentleman came up to me.
'I'm eighty-six', he told me while invading my personal space.
"Here's a joke forya. Woman goes into the doctor. "Flu", says the doctor. "No, I walked", said the woman. Ha, ha, ha! Here's another one forya!....' and so on, and so on, until the bus arrived and rescued me.
Ruefully, I realised that given my penchant for crap jokes, it is much more likely that I will grow old boring people with my sense of humour like the Old Gentleman, rather than impressing younger people with my style like the Perfect Old Lady.
A few weeks ago, I spotted the Perfect Old Lady.
She was driving an vintage Morris Traveller in cream with a red leather interior. Its woodwork and bodywork were immaculate.
She sat smiling and serene inside, a vision of cloudy white hair and scarlet lipstick: every wrinkle in place, neat little hands clasping the wheel, feminine and sweet.
In the rear seats of her car were two stylish tartan rugs and in the very back, a turntable.
'I want to be her!' I exclaimed inwardly, 'Yes, please, that's me in the future!'
I was delighted with my choice and carried on with the journey.
A while later that day while I was waiting at a bus stop, an Old Gentleman came up to me.
'I'm eighty-six', he told me while invading my personal space.
"Here's a joke forya. Woman goes into the doctor. "Flu", says the doctor. "No, I walked", said the woman. Ha, ha, ha! Here's another one forya!....' and so on, and so on, until the bus arrived and rescued me.
Ruefully, I realised that given my penchant for crap jokes, it is much more likely that I will grow old boring people with my sense of humour like the Old Gentleman, rather than impressing younger people with my style like the Perfect Old Lady.
Friday, August 06, 2010
Lifemusic
Faintly, through the wall, I hear next door's dogs howling, a perfect glissando: up.... and back down again... pause... up... and back down again....
Two doors down, the wind chimes tinkle vaguely, irritating as I try to identify a tune.
A distant bus wheezes, whines and sighs, not quite powerful enough to do its job.
Someone somewhere is building something with a buzz-saw: it snarls and grinds.
Cars whoosh quietly down the street and snatches of women's voices float through the window, their disconnected practical poetry a lyric of passing nonsense.
Planes groan through the air, distant... overhead...distant; two of them, going in different directions, everyone aboard looking for paradise.
'Youuu stuuupid bugger, youuu stuuupid bugger', says a lone pigeon.
Two doors down, the wind chimes tinkle vaguely, irritating as I try to identify a tune.
A distant bus wheezes, whines and sighs, not quite powerful enough to do its job.
Someone somewhere is building something with a buzz-saw: it snarls and grinds.
Cars whoosh quietly down the street and snatches of women's voices float through the window, their disconnected practical poetry a lyric of passing nonsense.
Planes groan through the air, distant... overhead...distant; two of them, going in different directions, everyone aboard looking for paradise.
'Youuu stuuupid bugger, youuu stuuupid bugger', says a lone pigeon.
Thursday, August 05, 2010
Houses Huge and Houses Holy
Offsprog 2 and her friend were bored transcribing.
I could hear them searching the songs the interviewees were talking about: first, Mind Your Own Business by the Delta 5, and then Morning Train (9 to 5) by Sheena Easton. I think they are finding it interesting, although one of the interviewees whispers when she's saying something she shouldn't and Offsprog 2 is finding it difficult to work out what she's saying.
I have finished re-reading the book but will have to read through the transcripts (I've got two more to do myself) before deciding what to add and where.
I had to go for a really long walk today to rinse my brain; I walked through Hadley Wood, footballer land, where the houses are massive with forbidding electronic gates and thick net curtains.
Huge and gleaming cars are parked on the brick driveways and the lawns are kept green and every-ready for the occasional visit from the homeowners, who naturally are hopping from one unfeasibly large pile of bricks to another.
Recession? Pah! Not for this lot!
There is an overall air of nastiness about the manicured gardens and mock-tudor gables. The architecture could be described as 'eff-off'; mean little security cameras peek from the eaves, and notices pinned on the gates warn of patrols and guard dogs.
Who wants to live in a prison of their own creation? Not I.
I returned via a tiny churchyard at Monken Hadley that had unusual wooden gravestones (gravewoods?) with painted inscriptions. Brambles had been allowed to grow over them and I hooked the brambles behind the wood so I could read the writing. Cream teas will be served in the Church House this Sunday, said a notice on the notice-board with a photograph of a scone upon it.
Overlapping worlds never cease to fascinate me.
I could hear them searching the songs the interviewees were talking about: first, Mind Your Own Business by the Delta 5, and then Morning Train (9 to 5) by Sheena Easton. I think they are finding it interesting, although one of the interviewees whispers when she's saying something she shouldn't and Offsprog 2 is finding it difficult to work out what she's saying.
I have finished re-reading the book but will have to read through the transcripts (I've got two more to do myself) before deciding what to add and where.
I had to go for a really long walk today to rinse my brain; I walked through Hadley Wood, footballer land, where the houses are massive with forbidding electronic gates and thick net curtains.
Huge and gleaming cars are parked on the brick driveways and the lawns are kept green and every-ready for the occasional visit from the homeowners, who naturally are hopping from one unfeasibly large pile of bricks to another.
Recession? Pah! Not for this lot!
There is an overall air of nastiness about the manicured gardens and mock-tudor gables. The architecture could be described as 'eff-off'; mean little security cameras peek from the eaves, and notices pinned on the gates warn of patrols and guard dogs.
Who wants to live in a prison of their own creation? Not I.
I returned via a tiny churchyard at Monken Hadley that had unusual wooden gravestones (gravewoods?) with painted inscriptions. Brambles had been allowed to grow over them and I hooked the brambles behind the wood so I could read the writing. Cream teas will be served in the Church House this Sunday, said a notice on the notice-board with a photograph of a scone upon it.
Overlapping worlds never cease to fascinate me.
Wednesday, August 04, 2010
Puffin Guarding its Nest on the Farne Isles
This might be too small to see, but it's a very funny puffin marching around on the lookout for baddies. I would love a puffin in the kitchen to keep me company but I know it would get lonely when I go away.
I will have to make do with the toad that lives in the yard and the snails that I have to leave alone now there's a toad there to eat them.
Did you see that TV item about the fact that snails have a homing instinct? They are trying to persuade people to mark their shells with coloured nail varnish and swap them with their neighbours to see if they can make their way home.
Somehow, I think the frosty fellows in my street might think I was barmy if I turned up on their doorsteps with a handful of varnished snails.
I could be wrong, I suppose.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/features/so-you-want-to-be-a-scientist/experiments/homing-snails/snail-swap/
I will have to make do with the toad that lives in the yard and the snails that I have to leave alone now there's a toad there to eat them.
Did you see that TV item about the fact that snails have a homing instinct? They are trying to persuade people to mark their shells with coloured nail varnish and swap them with their neighbours to see if they can make their way home.
Somehow, I think the frosty fellows in my street might think I was barmy if I turned up on their doorsteps with a handful of varnished snails.
I could be wrong, I suppose.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/features/so-you-want-to-be-a-scientist/experiments/homing-snails/snail-swap/
Reading
I am halfway through reading the Lost Women of Rock Music, to see where the new interview material will fit in. It will be hard, as I spent so much time getting the 'flow' right in the first place; but one thing I know now, to be sparing in what I use and to find the most perfect quotations from each person because it is not a 'fan' book but a history book. I suppose at a later date I could publish the transcripts separately. They are very interesting in themselves, particularly as they involve conversations with extremely strong and interesting personalities. Some of the women became quite angry and animated as I spoke to them.
What I would never publish however is the stories of sexual violence, which were quite horrific.
I warned the Offsprogs to be careful at Glastonbury, and they laughed.
Of course they did! Everyone thinks they are invincible when they are young, and I am sure the two young women who got raped at the Latitude Festival felt like this too.
An endless flow of tales of stabbings, shooting and bullying by and of young men stings us as though we are walking, vulnerable, through fields of nettles and thorns; but if this is happening to teenage men, what is happening to girls?
None of the rapes I was told of were reported to the police. the police were not seen as friendly or helpful, or the young women concerned were terrified of losing their teenage freedom, of being put under house-arrest for someone else's crime.
Many human males are primitive creatures under their suits and uniforms. Females who are concerned about the behaviour of some sections of male society are frequently laughed at and marginalised.
Get a credit card! Buy a dress! Pour another gin and tonic!
Make a smokescreen and you won't remember it, you won't see it, and we can all carry on as we were before.
The problem is, as any woman who has been raped will tell you, life for her will never, ever be the same again.
It is a wound that never heals, a silent scream that will never be heard.
What I would never publish however is the stories of sexual violence, which were quite horrific.
I warned the Offsprogs to be careful at Glastonbury, and they laughed.
Of course they did! Everyone thinks they are invincible when they are young, and I am sure the two young women who got raped at the Latitude Festival felt like this too.
An endless flow of tales of stabbings, shooting and bullying by and of young men stings us as though we are walking, vulnerable, through fields of nettles and thorns; but if this is happening to teenage men, what is happening to girls?
None of the rapes I was told of were reported to the police. the police were not seen as friendly or helpful, or the young women concerned were terrified of losing their teenage freedom, of being put under house-arrest for someone else's crime.
Many human males are primitive creatures under their suits and uniforms. Females who are concerned about the behaviour of some sections of male society are frequently laughed at and marginalised.
Get a credit card! Buy a dress! Pour another gin and tonic!
Make a smokescreen and you won't remember it, you won't see it, and we can all carry on as we were before.
The problem is, as any woman who has been raped will tell you, life for her will never, ever be the same again.
It is a wound that never heals, a silent scream that will never be heard.
Tuesday, August 03, 2010
Factory
There is a mini-factory of teenage girls in the next door room, transcribing interviews for me. It's an experiment: they are bored and skint and I have a backlog to get through. There was a bit of shouting earlier on but I'm hoping for at least two hours of graft before they gravitate down to the pizza in the kitchen. I can hear through the paper tissue walls that they have been invited to a picnic on Hampstead heath but I hope they are turning it down.
When I've stopped prevaricating by writing this, I am going to go through Matthew Bannister's book again; it describes the male indie mindset exceedingly and depressingly well and I am sure there is something there that I can bounce ideas off.
Gina called first thing this morning and she is going to put a version of the video we made of The Song of the Unsung Heroine up on Youtube later today.
It's all go here in matchbox house: Offsprog One is living here at the moment but she's doing work experience and just returning home knackered for food and sleep.
There are clean and dirty clothes draped over every chair, bedpost, and table.
Shoes lie ready for feet to be stuffed into them at various strategic places on each floor.
Library books stick to the kitchen worktop and drifts of cherry stones clog the corners of the living room. Empty cups wait forlornly to be cleared away.
A small toy, a yellow rubber man, has been lying on the kitchen floor for three days; every so often he sticks to someone's foot and relocates. Who does he belong to? We are all grown up here, or at least we think we are.
In between it all, I remember 'Walk tall, walk straight and look the world right in the eye', the lyric from the good old Val Doonican song.
It always struck me as quite good advice from the cosy knitted gentleman.
When I've stopped prevaricating by writing this, I am going to go through Matthew Bannister's book again; it describes the male indie mindset exceedingly and depressingly well and I am sure there is something there that I can bounce ideas off.
Gina called first thing this morning and she is going to put a version of the video we made of The Song of the Unsung Heroine up on Youtube later today.
It's all go here in matchbox house: Offsprog One is living here at the moment but she's doing work experience and just returning home knackered for food and sleep.
There are clean and dirty clothes draped over every chair, bedpost, and table.
Shoes lie ready for feet to be stuffed into them at various strategic places on each floor.
Library books stick to the kitchen worktop and drifts of cherry stones clog the corners of the living room. Empty cups wait forlornly to be cleared away.
A small toy, a yellow rubber man, has been lying on the kitchen floor for three days; every so often he sticks to someone's foot and relocates. Who does he belong to? We are all grown up here, or at least we think we are.
In between it all, I remember 'Walk tall, walk straight and look the world right in the eye', the lyric from the good old Val Doonican song.
It always struck me as quite good advice from the cosy knitted gentleman.
Monday, August 02, 2010
Transcribing for The Lost Women of Rock Music
I am getting down to working on the book.
First of all, I had to finish transcribing the interview I did with Viv Albertine, and I sat for two hours, painstakingly making sure every word was there so it is authentically her.
Then I lost everything I had done, all in one go!
I let the computer cool down (and myself) and started again.
I have just about done it, but have to go over it again tomorrow to check that it's accurate; there are ten pages so far and I expect it to be more, but tomorrow I will start at 8.30 as I meant to this morning.
I need to get into a groove because there are four more interviews to transcribe.
There are possibly two more interviews to record, but possibly not; I am going to be working very hard throughout August to get the book finished in time.
There are post-it notes stuck all over the desk with scribbled instructions. Every so often, I throw them all away. They are the material equivalent of stretching my arms and yawning, and I go to the back door and inhale outside-air to revitalise myself instead.
I am not a natural sitter-downer-and-writer and this feels like hard work, although it is incredibly interesting and I really value the information that comes out of these interviews.
I am also glad that no-one I have interviewed has become a grumpy old woman; instead, they gaze on their past with awe and dig up memories that surprise them.
I hope that by talking to me and to other people who also value the female contribution to British pop culture, that they in turn value themselves and their past as much as we do.
First of all, I had to finish transcribing the interview I did with Viv Albertine, and I sat for two hours, painstakingly making sure every word was there so it is authentically her.
Then I lost everything I had done, all in one go!
I let the computer cool down (and myself) and started again.
I have just about done it, but have to go over it again tomorrow to check that it's accurate; there are ten pages so far and I expect it to be more, but tomorrow I will start at 8.30 as I meant to this morning.
I need to get into a groove because there are four more interviews to transcribe.
There are possibly two more interviews to record, but possibly not; I am going to be working very hard throughout August to get the book finished in time.
There are post-it notes stuck all over the desk with scribbled instructions. Every so often, I throw them all away. They are the material equivalent of stretching my arms and yawning, and I go to the back door and inhale outside-air to revitalise myself instead.
I am not a natural sitter-downer-and-writer and this feels like hard work, although it is incredibly interesting and I really value the information that comes out of these interviews.
I am also glad that no-one I have interviewed has become a grumpy old woman; instead, they gaze on their past with awe and dig up memories that surprise them.
I hope that by talking to me and to other people who also value the female contribution to British pop culture, that they in turn value themselves and their past as much as we do.
Sunday, August 01, 2010
Rude Britannia and an Alien Artist
Friday was quite busy: it wasn't just the day the car spectacularly failed it's MOT, but it was also the day I met Caroline Coon and went to see the Rude Britannia exhibition at Tate Britain.
There is lots of it: drawings by Cruickshank, Gillray, Donald McGill, Jake and Dinos Chapman, paintings by Beryl Cook and Hogarth, a 'wanker' hand on a spring by Sarah Lucas, cartoons by Gerald Scarfe and Ralph Steadman and much, much more.
There was too much Viz, and a lot of the conceptual stuff didn't carry on the threads of the earlier stuff. There was no Oz, no Jamie Reid and I don't think there was any Ronald Searle.
There was no Caroline Coon either!
I couldn't understand why some of the 3D stuff was there and so much 2D stuff wasn't. It seemed like an exhibition curated by a committee who didn't agree with each other about what satire is; but in some ways, it was the more enjoyable for its slightly jumble sale effect, and I definitely felt it was worth more than one visit. Some of the drawing was just so incredibly beautiful that both Caroline and I felt positively inspired.
Definitely my favourite drawings were by Aubrey Beardsley.
I am sure they fit into the category of erotic art but they were actually rather obscene because of their caricature nature, but the way they were drawn was so absolutely brilliant that they were breathtaking.
A lot of people are good at art and good at drawing; they have good ideas and can make entertaining marks on paper or canvas. However, Aubrey Beardsley possessed something extra, something magical. His little black-and-white characters live in a different world where everyone has elegant ankles and titchy well-shod feet, and the lines with which their faces are picked out render even the ugly beautiful; their clothing is exquisite and they are arranged on the page like wild flowers growing on an undisturbed plot.
Some people seem to be plonked on this Earth from a different planet or an alternative universe, and he is one of them.
Out of this world.
http://www.tate.org.uk/britain/exhibitions/britishcomicart/default.shtm
There is lots of it: drawings by Cruickshank, Gillray, Donald McGill, Jake and Dinos Chapman, paintings by Beryl Cook and Hogarth, a 'wanker' hand on a spring by Sarah Lucas, cartoons by Gerald Scarfe and Ralph Steadman and much, much more.
There was too much Viz, and a lot of the conceptual stuff didn't carry on the threads of the earlier stuff. There was no Oz, no Jamie Reid and I don't think there was any Ronald Searle.
There was no Caroline Coon either!
I couldn't understand why some of the 3D stuff was there and so much 2D stuff wasn't. It seemed like an exhibition curated by a committee who didn't agree with each other about what satire is; but in some ways, it was the more enjoyable for its slightly jumble sale effect, and I definitely felt it was worth more than one visit. Some of the drawing was just so incredibly beautiful that both Caroline and I felt positively inspired.
Definitely my favourite drawings were by Aubrey Beardsley.
I am sure they fit into the category of erotic art but they were actually rather obscene because of their caricature nature, but the way they were drawn was so absolutely brilliant that they were breathtaking.
A lot of people are good at art and good at drawing; they have good ideas and can make entertaining marks on paper or canvas. However, Aubrey Beardsley possessed something extra, something magical. His little black-and-white characters live in a different world where everyone has elegant ankles and titchy well-shod feet, and the lines with which their faces are picked out render even the ugly beautiful; their clothing is exquisite and they are arranged on the page like wild flowers growing on an undisturbed plot.
Some people seem to be plonked on this Earth from a different planet or an alternative universe, and he is one of them.
Out of this world.
http://www.tate.org.uk/britain/exhibitions/britishcomicart/default.shtm
In Which I Fail To See Hotel Medea
A couple of months ago I drew a comic to be used in Hotel Medea, an overnight theatrical production devised by and featuring Persis-Jade Maravala, a colleague at the University of the East. It was a chance meeting: I had gone along to talk about my music at a get-together about research, and had taken my drawings to accompany me and make me feel more confident.
She had been looking for an artist to make a comic that described Medea's exile, and I spent about ten days drawing non-stop to get the comic ready for the production's visit to Brazil (some of the drawings are posted here, a few pages back).
The boat trip carrying the audience to the production left from the O2 in North Greenwich, travelling to Stratford, so I decided to leave my car at Stratford, travel by tube to North Greenwich, and pick up my car at 2 a.m. when the first part of the Trilogy finished (unused to theatre, I though that Part One would be enough even though the comic appears in Part Two when the audience is put to bed in pyjamas with hot chocolate and the comic).
It was fun getting ready and exciting to have an event like this to go to.
The problem was that after I had parked in Stratford, I then had to negotiate several huge groups of drunk young men (one group of more than ten) who were shouting, standing in the road, and hovering in a way that surely did not feel menacing to them but that certainly made me feel afraid.
I got halfway to the station before the thought of meeting the same guys four times as drunk on the way back to my car in the wee small hours entered my head.
I couldn't do it. I don't know whether it's Offsprog Two's mugging a few weeks ago, or the effect of being away from the ferocious urban buzz of night-time London for a week, but I actually felt frightened.
Back to the car, and back home I went.
I do wish I had been able to see it; I know it sold out and so maybe there will be another chance, when I will be able to collar one of my pals (they are all out of London on holiday) to come with me.
She had been looking for an artist to make a comic that described Medea's exile, and I spent about ten days drawing non-stop to get the comic ready for the production's visit to Brazil (some of the drawings are posted here, a few pages back).
The boat trip carrying the audience to the production left from the O2 in North Greenwich, travelling to Stratford, so I decided to leave my car at Stratford, travel by tube to North Greenwich, and pick up my car at 2 a.m. when the first part of the Trilogy finished (unused to theatre, I though that Part One would be enough even though the comic appears in Part Two when the audience is put to bed in pyjamas with hot chocolate and the comic).
It was fun getting ready and exciting to have an event like this to go to.
The problem was that after I had parked in Stratford, I then had to negotiate several huge groups of drunk young men (one group of more than ten) who were shouting, standing in the road, and hovering in a way that surely did not feel menacing to them but that certainly made me feel afraid.
I got halfway to the station before the thought of meeting the same guys four times as drunk on the way back to my car in the wee small hours entered my head.
I couldn't do it. I don't know whether it's Offsprog Two's mugging a few weeks ago, or the effect of being away from the ferocious urban buzz of night-time London for a week, but I actually felt frightened.
Back to the car, and back home I went.
I do wish I had been able to see it; I know it sold out and so maybe there will be another chance, when I will be able to collar one of my pals (they are all out of London on holiday) to come with me.
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