A Right Royal pain in the arse

There are certain things in life which I know other people enjoy, but which I hate. OK, perhaps 'certain things' doesn't quite encapsulate my rather broad distaste of pretty much everything, but then I don't care. I have never really had much affection for the Royal family, because they are as irrelevant as they are costly. They all have the look of a family who has intermarried one time too many. Yet, apparently what makes us all so quintessentially British, is the fact that we are ruled by a bunch of slightly mutated and deranged Germans.

I also have a long-held distaste of any live music events, and - more specifically - festivals. Again, I know that there are people who like nothing better than decamping into a shit-riddled field to stand in torrential rain listening to some pretentious band belt out their tunes. It probably helps that festival goers are off their faces at the time, either by chemical means, or just 'high on life' as they jump up and down to some insipid Coldplay number, listening to Chris Martin trying to anaemically sing his way through yet another advert-friendly anthem.

So, above, are 2 things I have very little time for. Unfortunately, both were to fatefully collide on the bank Holiday monday just gone as I was ushered to a bloody park against my will, ostensibly to watch a bunch of geriatrics perform for another geriatric who has had the serendipitous fortune to have her pampered arse wiped by the state for 60 long years. Standing there in a muddy field, packed with people I just wanted to murder in horrific ways, I then realised that the 'concert' I had been hoodwinked into attending was not a concert at all, instead, we would be watching a large telly in the middle of a soggy field, for reasons which defied all logic.

For over 3 hours, I witnessed people cheering and whooping at a bloody telly. I concede that the telly was pretty big, but it was still just a telly. The acts on the telly couldn't hear the responses, but yet the cheering continued. To rub salt into the wound, it wasn't like we were watching some exclusive broadcast of the event - they just piped regular BBC 1 (not even HD) onto a big bloody telly. There were even the type of glitches you have come to expect when watching a 'freeview' service, and there were a few occasions where the picture was lost all together, with an error message being booed at by thousands of inebriated orangutans.

I was bored. I spent some time playing games on my phone, then I realised that I had just one game. I looked at my watch continuously. Time didn't advance. I tried to guess what part of London people came from by only their appearance. The West Londoners had posh faces and big hair and goofy teeth and ethnic jewellery. The South Londoners all looked like they should be in prison. The East Londoners were all orange and walked like Danny Dyer. The North londoners all looked like utterly pretentious little cunts who deserved the slowest and most painful of deaths.

That amused me for an hour, then I spent the last hour scenario planning, and wondering when we could leave to avoid the mental rush to the tube. Thankfully, Paul McCartney came on. As the granny-faced weasel played some good Beatles records interspersed with some terrible Wings ones, I frogmarched my 'posse' to the tube and we left. At least there won't be another sodding Jubilee for 10 years.

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