- Fri Jul 01, 2022 9:26 pm
#28547
Y'know. After all these years, it is remarkable - tragic, even - how much progress (I think that that is the word) has been rolled back.
Here's the thing. 40 years ago, almost to the day, I was in a punk band for a living. Making records, touring, drinking for free or fluppence in the Marquee, The Ship and the St. Moritz, generally living to a reasonable standard with an effortless side-order of shagging and recreationals.
At least once a fortnight, I would call my mum and she would belt in to town from Dunstabubble and we would go for a quick nosebag in the Wong Kei, and then decamp to the Royal Opera House or up to Sadler's Wells for the evening. I secured return tickets from a kiosk where I was a well-kent face and they would hold them for me until late afternoon.
No one considered this weird, let alone elitist. Me, in tatty leathers, a pink silk bandana and an anthracite boater, nope - never garnered a second glance and otherwise Pristine Christine was probably still in her gardening clobber. We even saw Nureyev dance at the RHS, Marceau up the hill and I still try to squeeze in a Verdi at least once a year.
Thank fuck that Dorries, at that time, was still at whatever school failed her so massively. She probably believes that Glyndebourne is an eye infection.
- By Bones McCoy