Only in London Part 3: London Word Festival

Often people back home ask me "Why would you live in London? The weather and dentistry are terrible, it's full of poms... sure you can travel, but that's about getting OUT of London. Why would you live IN it?" To those people I reply with this series of 'Only in London' posts, dedicated to fantabulous - it's what the F stands for, remember - events so London-y you couldn't imagine them happening anywhere else. So read the posts, shut up, and go back to dodging sharks.

From 2009-03-00-London

Spoken. Word. Two such harmless pieces of verbiage, but put them together and people suddenly have other things to do. Although the idea of it appeals, I'd never actually gotten around to seeing (should that be hearing?) a spoken word gig. Thanks (again) to Londonist, I scored an invite to the opening night of the London Word Festival (check out the website if only for the daily random neologism in the bottom of the right frame). Sure, I felt like an impostor intruding on a sub-culture of which I knew almost nothing, but the local wordy-types were welcoming and friendly. Perhaps it was my man-bag. It seemed to be a compulsory part of the uniform for all males in the room.

Within half a pint of arriving, I was chatting to some of the 'natives' - one of whom is one of the very few born-and-bred Londoners I've actually come across in London. Despite the fact our origins are almost literally polar opposites, our views on life in the city ran along the same lines. Interestingly though, he professed that most of his Londoner-since-birth friends have absolutely no desire to explore beyond its limits, not even venturing to other parts of England. The concept floored me. Most of the world is on your doorstep, and (until recently) you've had the currency that makes travelling affordable, and you stay in grey, drizzly London all year round? Perhaps the wanderlust typical of the Australian psyche comes from something in our upbringing, or perhaps it's in the water supply. Who knows, it could be the fluoride. Maybe it does more than teeth.

As for the event itself, my performance poetry cherry was popped by one Tim Key and I regret it not a jot. Having no other performance poets to compare it to, it's easiest to describe it as like seeing a stand-up comic doing a particularly bizarre set, with notebooks. The 'golden fib' finalists ranged from touching to hilarious, and I may have embarrassed myself when I was the only person in the room to laugh at the joke about Schroedinger's cat. Tough crowd.

All in all it was a great way to spend a night out, even without the open bar, leaving me with an invite from the organisers of another spoken word event, and the lingering, haunting image of a girl, wine in hand, sitting alone in the corner of the bar playing solitaire scrabble... I've definitely never seen that in Sydney.

Only in London Part 2: Fitzrovia Radio Hour

Often people back home ask me "Why would you live in London? The weather and dentistry are terrible, it's full of poms... sure you can travel, but that's about getting OUT of London. Why would you live IN it?" To those people I reply with this series of 'Only in London' posts, dedicated to fantabulous - it's what the F stands for, remember - events so London-y you couldn't imagine them happening anywhere else. So read the posts, shut up, and go back to dodging sharks. 

From 2009-03-00-London

Remember life before TV? No? Neither do I. But apparently there was one, and if renditions of these throwback radio plays are anything to go by, it was probably a lot better than 'non-ratings period' back in Australia. I'll admit it: this sounds like a weird night out. And it is. Weird and wonderful.

On a I-have-nothing-planned-for-Saturday-night whim, I decided to do something unusual, and as usual, London(ist) delivered. Getting mildly lost on the South bank of the Thames, I eventually found the Swan at the Globe Bar... heading towards the big white Globe Theatre should have been a clue. Approaching the stairs up to the bar, I had fear in my heart. Venues co-located with tourist attractions tend to be mediocre at best. Crossing the threshold I couldn't have been more relieved. The clinking of cocktail and wine glasses, the hubbub of conversation flowing in the rather trendy looking crowd, and strangely, the tiny angel wings attached to the light bulbs, all gave the place a satisfying buzz. The view across the river didn't hurt either.

The above average dress sense of the crowd became apparent when the Fitzrovia Radio Hour kicked off. Although the performance is ultimately for podcasting, the chaps and damsels of the cast had set the tone in vintage outfits, and the regulars knew to, literally, follow suit. I've tried and failed to describe the show to people since, so I think I'll leave it to their own words:

We are the olive in the Martini.

Classic mystery, science fiction and drama radio plays of the 40's and 50's performed and recorded with style in front of a live studio audience, with live sound effects, then broadcast via The World Wide Web. Enjoy the simpler pleasures in life with cut-glass received pronunciation in a speakeasy bar.


We refute the notion that the well-crafted written word is dead, it's alive and well, living in Fitzrovia and wearing a tuxedo.

In theory the concept could be done anywhere, but only in London do you have the heritage of the British radio play (they still do them on Radio 4), and the kingdom of British accents to call upon. Add to that the ingenious use of props for sound effects, and although we the audience practiced our gasps and hisses before the show, the only sound we added during the broadcast was laughter. Even at the frighteningly aurally disturbing sound of Frank Maskill going 'the lathers way'...

Thankfully, there's another one coming up soon.

Only in London Part 1: Drinking with Dinosaurs

Often people back home ask me "Why would you live in London? The weather and dentistry are terrible, it's full of poms... sure you can travel, but that's about getting OUT of London. Why would you live IN it?" To those people I reply with this series of 'Only in London' posts, dedicated to fantabulous - it's what the F stands for, remember - events so London-y you couldn't imagine them happening anywhere else. So read the posts, shut up, and go back to dodging sharks.

Last Friday of the month at the Natural History Museum

You'll know already that I'm quite partial to the occasional museum. The reverence for objects that no longer serve a useful purpose, other than simply having once existed, to be admired, studied, beheld; the collected historical quanta of human life, thought and experience, housed together to shelter from the bustling, Blackberry-wielding world outside; someone occasionally popping in to admire the relics, gaze upon them in awe and wonder, and leave again reminded, in a good way, of your own personal insignificance in the grand scheme of things, without having to resort to inventing a god. Or maybe it's just the mustiness.

But I ramble. Musea are great in their own right, but are usually a little... uptight. Lots of "No participle" signs. So it's great when a museum lets its hair down, takes off the specs, and much like a scene in any cheesy teen movie, with a shake of the head, is suddenly transformed, and you can't help but gasp "Wow, you were awesome all along, and I just didn't realise..."

The big musea in London are free. It might take you a while to get your head around that. And I won't go into the argument about whether that cheapens the museum and its collection, or is an accurate reflection of their pricelessness. Once you've assimilated that fact, assimilate this: once a month, they open their doors late and let you go in and wander around the collections with a glass of red in your hand. I shit you not. (Aside: I didn't realise how quintessentially Sydney that phrase was until I came here... and when I hear someone utter it, it makes me unbearably homesick for no reason I can fathom... I shit you not.) And so I eventually get to the point. Leaving work on a Friday, and heading to the Natural History Museum for a few drinks with friends, seeing the Darwin exhibition in this, the year of Chucky D (200 years since he was born, dontcherknow... which opens up your eyes to both the progress and regress that has occured since then), and also casting an eye over the Wildlife Photographer of the Year exhibition (which opens up your eyes to the plight of some marvellous animals, and also to the fact that there are spoilt 10 year olds out there being given DSLRs and taken on safari trips to Africa)... well, a night like that, it's as close as I get to being a pig in muck.

It was so good I even signed up on the night and became a member. I shit you not.

Deeper into the abyss

(Note: the following entry was written after a dinner of half a wedge of brie and half a bottle of Bordeaux. This entry may contain traces of depressed, drunken, existentialist rambling)

Boffins have discovered that the mere act of labelling an emotion immediately lessens the physiological emotional response... meaning that every time you watch a horror film and the formerly-virginal and soon-to-be-dead supporting actress clings to the hero and says "I'm scared!" in response to the sudden appearance of the depraved killer, instead of smugly thinking "Well derr!" the correct response should be "Clever girl that. Labelling her fear, engaging cognitive processes to suppress her innate fear response so that she'll be thinking straight and able to deal with whatever the fiend outside cares to throw at her. Unless it's an axe." It also means that there may actually be some therapeutic value to the seemingly pointless exercise of writing about the various episodes of misery that pass for human experience these days, so here's part 2 of the "on the couch" series...

So, if that's where it all began, where does it all end? hmm?

Well, death. Obviously.

That's a very bleak view, don't you think? You know Freud theorised that we all have an innate drive towards for death...

Freud theorised a lot of things. But on this one he probably got it somewhat right. The old joke of death and taxes just isn't true... I'm sure plenty of human existence occurred without any sort of taxation, but they all lived their lives racing toward death. It's mankind's obsession, his destiny. Yet we do nothing but fight it. Why do we do anything if not to try and cheat death? Building magnificent monuments, accomplishing great feats, the simple act of fucking and procreating, what is any of it but pissing in the wind, trying to leave a tiny "I woz ere" as the prospect of your own death blows a gale. 

Well, a not insignificant number of people think there might be more to life than death... perhaps death is not the end...

Perhaps they're right. Perhaps this is all some cruel test that will all make sense in the aftermath, and we'll sit around some celestial club lounge reminiscing about the good ol' times: "Hey, remember the crusades, the holocaust and the 'age of terror'? Geez, we took ourselves seriously back then didn't we? Ah, the folly of youth..." You can perhaps a lot of things, and deliberately imagining another being outside and independent of your existence, yet responsible for every object and event in it doesn't seem like a productive use for the human mind. Especially when there are monuments to be built, feats to achieve, and fucking to be done. Lock a newborn in a mansion with no access to the outside world, and I'm sure they'll imagine all sorts of things beyond the walls, none of them true. And even if they did manage to imagine the truth, what use would it be? There existence is constrained, and they have no way of knowing if there's anything outside the hollow building.

Why this sudden turn to morbid thoughts? Has something happened recently?

Yes, of course. The usual confrontation with the mortality of your parents. Suddenly realising that your original infantile model for God is not everlasting. It's not as though there haven't been health scares for them in the past, but somehow this one's worse. My dad has dementia and is getting worse.

Pardon the cliche, but how does that make you feel?

Upset that it has happened, scared about what's going to happen, worried for my parents, angry that there's nothing I can do to fix it, guilty that I'm not back home to fail at fixing it... the usual mix. I'm trying to be calm and reasonable about it, someone has to be, since Mum's really not coping, but they really don't make it easy. Somehow reading up on 'help sheets' for carers was the worst part: in one they say any changes to the household for the purposes of safety should "respect the person's dignity", and under the suggested changes to the house list "move the locks on doors to somewhere they might not think to look" to stop them wandering. Honestly, I'd rather be kept prisoner in my own house by a big security guard than having my 'carers' effectively lock me in the house with the chains of my failing faculties.

People often react to this sort of thing in stages...

Yeah, I know. This will pass. I'll pull myself together and deal with what needs to be dealt with, and with the inevitability of this oft-repeated drama, it will be difficult, it will hurt, and Dad will eventually die. If you look at it from a purely practical point of view, a sudden death would in many ways be less traumatic.

Well, you know what Freud would say about wishing the death of your own father...

Frued can shut his cancer-riddled mouth. Believe me, there has never been any desire to supplant my father and live out his life. Far from it, my parents seemed to be constantly angry and I could think of nothing worse for my own life... Funnily enough, this latest crisis has shown me that I was probably wrong the whole time - their lives weren't hate-filled and bitter... it seems they do love each other after all, but just show it in an odd way. Otherwise why would they continue? And to think I spent much of my childhood wishing I were adopted for no reason. Of course, now there is a reason.

What do you mean?

Now that I see what my genes have in store, it doesn't look like it'll be smooth sailing from here on out, lifespan-wise. Sure, I'd like to think that faced with losing my mind and inevitably hurting those around me I'd take care of it somehow, but for all the toga parties, I don't think I'll prove to be such an antique roman. If you think on it too long, you could end up with some crazy ideas: given a strong likelihood of dementia in your old age, and the associated pain, upset and cost that that will incur on your 'loved ones', then logically you should go through life avoiding having any 'loved ones' - if you love them, you won't want to hurt them, but you know that with your genetic disposition and the current state of health-care that there is a very good chance you will... surely it's your responsibility to avoid relationships? Or at least campaign for euthanasia rights. But then again, perhaps that's the whole point of marriage... a high stakes gamble on who's going to outlive whom, and who's going to have to shoulder the burden. Again, statistically speaking, the women of the world are getting ripped off. Their few extra years of life expectancy meaning their twilight years are wasted on drooling men... as opposed to their years of youth, no doubt also spent with drooling men.

Oh, is that the time? I've got another appointment. Perhaps we can continue this next time...

Into the abyss

Thus far tmafaopie has been more or less a 'what I did on my holidays' travelogue, with the occasional rant or review thrown in. Nothing too personal revealed... this is the interweb after all and who knows who could be reading!

Well I do know, and you all (ok, both) know me well enough that if I start using this as a cheap version of therapy then I won't exactly be telling you anything you don't already know - I can't really imagine the FLC fan club popping back to check the blog, even if they did enjoy the review.
But just to warn you, the mafaopie is about to get a whole lot darker. And I don't mean the layout colours, it's to reduce eyestrain Emma! not because I'm evil - we can't all live in pink and white fairy land!

So, let's stretch out on the couch and see what dark creatures lurk in the abyss...

So, why don't you tell me where it all began?

What? the blog? Well it started off as just a few emails sent to friends back home during a trip around Europe when I was learning French a few years back... here's an example

(insert hazy memory sequence fade out)

Bonjour tout le monde! ca va? quoi de neuf? moi? pas grand chose. je me debrouille bien a l'institut de francais, le temps fait beau (euh, bien,il faisait beau jusqu'au ajourdhui...)

As you can see, the first week of the french course has greatly improved my ability to talk about nothing at all in French. Vous voulez savoir cequi s'est passe? euh alors..

Finally escaped the family, which had improved towards the end of my stay with them, but plumbed new depths of misery with the last few days together in Nice. Needless to say, I was bloody relieved to escape to the Institut. Even 8 hours a day of trying to speak in a foreign language was better than that!

The school is an eclectic bunch of rich Americans who have retired or semi retired with a house in France, people who have a yacht on the Mediterranean, and 2 Australian uni students. As you can imagine, we fit right in. It's actually not bad, but it leads to very strange situations, such as today when I had to make a presentation about Australian history, in French, to a room full of Americans and Scandinavians. As you are no doubt aware, I know practically nothing about Australian history, so I don't know what they got out of it, but if you ever meet someone who asks you about the 20 years of bloody civil war in Australia, play along. Tell them the 2 sides were known as the kangaroos and koalas, because they used their skins as uniforms. I'm sure that's what I said.

The highlight so far was last weekend, watching the derby between les Marseillais and les Nicois in the local pub. We got there quite early,and thought we'd be the only ones there to watch the match. By kick-off time, the place was packed to the rafters with OM supporters, with a small pocket of resistance in black and red. This meant that all the second hand smoke couldn't rise to said rafters, but had to escape into eyeballs instead. The whites of my eyes are now stained yellow with nicotine. The
atmosphere, while unbreathable, was very lively - including one guy with no shirt (which is something at 9pm in a European winter, even on the cote d'azur). He made up for the lack of shirt, by which one can normally tell which team he supports, with a loud hailer,and constantly chanting the OM chant, which goes something along the
lines of:

"Allez allez allez marseillais marseillas allez" (repeat).

Which, you can no doubt imagine, after a few Pernods degenerates to:

"Ay ay ay ay ay ay ay ay ay ay ay ay ay ay" (repeat).

Such a sophisticated culture.

Maintenant, je vous laisse. Il faut que je m'en aille.
a bientot,Pat

Coast-to-(almost)coast along Hadrian's wall. Sort of.

The plan was to follow Cycle Route 72 from Maryport on the West coast to Newcastle-upon-Tyne hopefully making it out to the East coast. A motley band of 8 riders signed up. None had any previous cycle touring experience. One knew how to make road repairs. Somehow, I ended up with the maps. Not a good start...

Day 1 am (Maryport - Newton Arlosh)

The sea was angry that day my friends... our band of intrepid cyclists set off from Maryport, having woken to hear severe weather warnings on the morning news. Thankfully the wind was at our backs along the coast, and the waterproof clothing was in fact waterproof. Riding along country back roads with deep puddles of watery mud and cowpats led to bewildered looks from the locals and inspired the theme song of the day: "Smell like poo on route 72."

Day 1 pm (Newton Arlosh - Carlisle):

After a well-deserved hot pub lunch we set off again, and although the rain had eased, we had to turn in to the wind. Not nice. We rode through Bowness, the Western extremity of the wall but nothing remains to be seen. The weather closed in and all were glad to get back to the Cornerways B&B in Carlisle, and then a typical English night out: Indian followed by a few drinks at the Walkabout. Less typically, there was a flame-eating woman in her knickers outside the walkie. Women in Carlisle are proper 'ard.

Day 2 am (Carlisle - Low Row):

Fortunately the rain had stopped and the sun had appeared. Unfortunately the baggage transport company ruined our plans to leave early, by nicking off with one of the bags we needed for the ride. Eventually we got on the road and enjoyed cycling away in the crisp morning sunshine. All was going well until the first bit of hill caused a broken chain... an hour or so later we were back on the road, and all was going well until a slightly ambiguous cycle route sign and my impetuousness led to the group splitting in two and getting lost. Yes, I had chosen the wrong way to go. Eventually we all reunited at Lanercost Priory, but being behind schedule and hungry we had to cut away from the cycle route and head to Low Row for lunch. I don't know why they have Low in the name of the town, after the hill we had to climb to get there.

Day 2 pm: (Low Row - Twice Brewed)
For fear of losing the light after all the morning's disasters we ignored the scenic cycle route and made straight for Twice Brewed, with only a whistle-stop halt in Haltwhistle, the geographic centre of Britain apparently. With dusk closing in we eventually found the Twice Brewed Inn (after quite a few more steep climbs) and were amply rewarded with one of the greatest pubs I've ever had the pleasure of playing trivial pursuit in.

Day 3 am: (Twice Brewed - Chesters)
Again, our hopes of an early start were dashed when a flat tyre was spotted in the morning. Andy kindly acted as super mechanic while the rest of us went up another hill for a spot of sightseeing and finally got to see a good chunk of the wall up close. To make up time we decided to just head east on the Stanegate (built over the old nice and straight Roman road), which allowed us to cycle along and gaze at the wall while lorries whizzed past us. A quick stop at the Mithraeum to have one of the best coffees I've had in the UK made by a chap with a coffee cart in the middle of nowhere, and to point at a dead sheep. Then on to Chesters for some proper classical nerdery, wandering among the ruins of the cavalry fort and the small museum.

Day 3 pm: (Chesters - Newcastle)
No rest for the wicked, we push on after lunch to get back on route 72, and hopefully make it to Newcastle in time for our trains back to London. With the clock racing against us, there was no time to idle at sites of interest, but zipping down the country lanes and along the banks of the Tyne was one of the most pleasant parts of the whole ride. Apart from the bugs in the hedgerows, stinging against your cheeks or sticking in your throat as you ride past. With some weary legs in the group we made it to Newcastle with plenty of time to make the train. Not with plenty of time to ride out to the coast and back, but Simon was determined to do it and no-one was going to stop him. The rest of us finally managed to pick up our bags at the YHA and settled in for a nice hot meal at the pub before getting on the train... well, that was the plan, but Jo and Andy discovered that everything they ordered wasn't available that day, since the chef was new.

More much needed updates

Like so many fat people with unused gym memberships, my resolution to write more has been a failure. Sure, it left me with a lingering sense of guilt, especially since people (okay, two, but that's still plural) in Sydney had been asking for more entries, but I just couldn't find the motivation. I needed a reason bigger than self-fulfillment or maintaining friendships. What I needed was competition... And then Emma started "feeling fuzzy?", and suddenly I had purpose!

So, here's my metaphorical blitzkrieg in the war of the words: updates on all the travels and goings-on since the start of 2008. Since this blog is more or less a personal diary to one day help me remember what I did and when, I've back-dated and archived the entries.

So that you can find them, here they are, in more or less reverse order:

• getting out of london
• some musical musings
• parental visit
• dodgeball
• cuba
• sydney
• alps
• russia

More links will be added once I write the posts - there's a lot to catch up on!

I hope you enjoy reading them. Both of you. P

Getting old: another birthday

So, 90% of the way to 30. This time last year, I was enjoying my mid-twenties watching world cup rugby in Paris. This year I was meant to be sunning myself on a weekend trip to the Italian coast, but due to an unplanned change in personal circumstances, I ended up sunning myself in London. Yes people, the sun actually came out on a day that begins with S. Twice.

The celebrations kicked off with a fashionably disastrous bowling night. Only in North London (or perhaps South London) would you be frisked upon entering a bowling alley. Still, the unexpected grope was well worth it for the cheese factor of Rowans bowling emporium and leisure centre, complete with DJ and a dance floor that really fired up after midnight. Congrats must go to Mel - winner of the bowling comp, proving that wii is no substitute for the real thing, Mark - air hockey champion, proving that even a child's game can be turned violent and foul-mouthed, and Nick - for the fruit tingle drink, proving that 3 wrongs can make a right.

The big day itself was spent making the most of the sun: american football in the park with some mates in the morning, followed by riding around the one-day-only cycle friendly streets of London, and capped off by sneaking in to (sort of) one of the corporate schmooze tents and enjoying their free booze and cheese cake. Oh, and I saw Boris Johnson (he looks even more ridiculous in person). Thanks also to my flatmate for cooking up a healthy dinner to make up for all the junk eaten while bowling.

After such a pleasant weekend, it's been a bit of a come-down. I'm now waking up to my 'late-twenties' status, and figure I should start making and checking off some sort of 'before I'm 30' list. I imagine these lists tend to have things like:

• get a degree: check. Twice. and a bit. Don't mention a PhD though.
• learn a second language: check. Although I'm finding that courses on French linguistics aren't that useful in everyday conversation. I should have taken "FRNC4601: How to console someone after a break-up."
• represent Australia at sport: check. It counts!
• move to a different city: check. Although after a year in Canberra I came scurrying back.
• move to a different country: check. Although the jury's out on whether it was a good idea - scurrying is still an option.
• find love and settle down: yeah, well, see the point above.
• find a job that you love: Baaahahahahahaha!
• buy a house: stop it, I'm laughing too hard!
• save the world: not likely, although my mother keeps telling me I should. I'm not sure it's worth saving.
• kill a man: check. sort of.

Anyone out there got suggestions for the list?

And I thought I was having a bad week...

In a rare nod to current events, I'd like to draw everyone's attention to this particular vignette from the Lehman Brothers collapse (it was reported in the Standard stable of papers, so it must be true):

Frenchman Edouard d'Archimbaud, 24, was due to begin his first day as a £45,000-a-year trader at Lehman Brothers today. He said: "I had trouble getting here because of the Eurostar fire. When I finally made it I found out I was fired. We are all fired."

I can't help but laugh. But to be honest, he seems to be taking it all in stride with a gallic shrug of insouciance.

Since I'm talking current events I'd also like to pick up some great writing on contests for the two most important political positions in the Western world: premier of NSW, and the less important post of US president. The first is from a blog-post from the BBC's Sydney correspondent on Iemma's 'retirement':

Soap opera does not even begin to describe what happened in New South Wales politics last week, as the unpopular Premier Morris Iemma stepped down in an orgy of factionalism, blood-letting and tears. It had shades of the The Borgias, The Sopranos, Monty Python, and now, with the elevation of Nathan Rees, the rag and bone of Steptoe and Son.

The rest of the post (entitled "the west-wing-isation of politics") is well worth a read.

The second tidbit, on the US contest is also in blog form - you MUST check out Sarah Palin's own blog Palindrome (the name alone should win an award). In particular have a look at the post with her preparation notes for an interview.

OK, it's not really Sarah Palin writing it. But you had to check didn't you? As an added bonus, google Palindrome blog (ok I've done it for you) and check out the site's by line. Had me in tears. But not in the same way that the thought of her leading the Western world does (and she will - McCain can't live another 4 years... can he?)

The future of music is... silence?

... and if it is I don't like it.


Thanks to Londonist (my favourite source for all things London) I scored a pair of tickets to see the Fun Lovin' Criminals playing at Koko. But this was no ordinary gig - it was a gimmicky 'silent disco' sponsored by Smirnoff. Basically, instead of plugging the instruments and mics into amps, they're all fed directly to the mix desk and then broadcast to the headphones you're wearing. And the drummer is locked away in a soundproof box... so now you get the idea.


Given only a few hours notice that I had in fact received tickets, I called on Mad Mark - music punter and critic extraordinaire - to join me on for this surreal concept in live music. It didn't take long for us to make up our minds that the old ways are still the best. The headphones weren't exactly top notch and gave a tinny sound experience, the mixing was either poor or couldn't cope with the fact that the instruments and vocals weren't being sung properly (not that Huey was messing it up, but amping up someone singing under their breath doesn't produce the same sound as someone singing properly). So, the 'silent' part of the gig definitely hampered the sound. The one saving grace of the headphones was that we could take them off to ignore the utterly atrocious Dutch DJ (perhaps I missed the joke, as others thought he was great). What would have been a great gig was sadly ruined by the gimmick.

Sound quality aside, the headphone gig also destroys one of the quintessentially valuable aspects of seeing music live - the sense of community and collective experience. Instead of feeling like you've shared a musical moment and thereby connected with the masses around you, everyone is at the same place, listening to the same band, but isolated in their own little 'ipod bubble'. Instead of stumbling out the doors overjoyed after a collective aural orgy, you hand back the headphones and leave feeling slightly dirty after a session of mass musical masturbation.