Shhh

Now, I realise that when I am old I am going to one of those people who hit the young folk with my walking stick, stroke the stray yet abnormally long hairs sprouting from my chin and run over anyone in my way with my electro nanna-mobile, so I know that with my current ‘delicate’ levels of tolerance, I’m going to be the granny from hell.

So with this said, I’m going to launch into another ‘social observation’.

Talkers. I hate them. I can’t stand people who talk through movies, concerts, presentations (ok, maybe I don’t mean this one but I needed a third example). I have a larger than life hatred for useless commentary and those who deliver them. In fact, I’m going to do some recent scenarios.

Scenario one: West End production, Stomp to be exact. Men clanging around, banging sticks on bin lids. We don’t need a lot of imagination on this one except the lead guy is stupidly hot (not necessarily relevant but still an important detail for the complete picture).

Talker 1 let’s call her Pamelaah: Someone’s just come on stage. What’s he got in his hand? Oh, it’s a bin lid. Is it a bin lid? Why is he holding a bin lid? What’s he going to do with the bin lid? Oh, he’s banging on the bin lid with that baton. Is that a baton? Wow, he’s doing it really quickly. Do you think it’s quick?

Sadly, all the glaring and turning around in the world did not shut this woman up.

Scenario two: Jose Gonzalez gig. Lorenzo, 22, Italian (we had 2 hours to get to know him). With group of friends: annoying Australian girls x 2, English girl, as annoying, x1. Jose is playing his acoustic set, crowd is predominately silent. Jose is looking hot, but not as hot as Stomp dude.

Lorenzo: I don’t understand why no one is talking. Why is no one talking? Why is everyone quiet? I don’t understand. Why not talk? I don’t know this song. Play ‘New Shoes’ (not even one of his songs). He continues to yell out ‘New Shoes’ for the rest of the set.

Sadly, Lorenzo will never realise he is a dick.