Cultural aristocracy

I get so anxious in the perspective of attending cultural events, such as musicals, concerts or dramas. That's why I harly go to them. Well, I explain; I don't go not because I can't stand the feeling of anxiety -which, of course, I can-, but because I dislike deeply the stressful process of learning about the events and then purchase the tickets on time. I'm such a useless fellow for some things, but my underskin fears are, on one hand, that the good things are always booked and, on the other, that there is always someone who says "oh, that's too expensive! You could have got them for 10 bucks, my friend X got them for 5, you should talk to him"... Oh, X., f**, my ass... .

                                         Lawrence Olivier, a definition of a handsome man.

My ideal mate would be someone who comforts me in a hug when I arrive home and say "my darling, I have booked special tickets in the third row of the Albert Hall to see Lawrence Olivier when he was 25, especially resucitated this week for the occasion. The Queen of Saba and the young Princess of Samarkanda will come along with us and at the end of the show, they will pay their respects to you, and tell you how wonderful you are and how poorly chances life is giving you. You don't have to worry about anything. Just meet me here at 7.15; we will close our eyes and snap our fingers and we shall be there, bright and splendorous, ready for the show".

I mean, I would go more to these events if such a thing like a cultural aristocracy existed.

But, alas! It must exist! I contemplated in the Evening Standard today -by the way, el rotativo explicitly supports "no" in the May 5th referendum- a photograph of four people from last night, sometime, somewhere in glamorous London. Some poetry reading of Byron and... who was the other?... Don't remember. In the photograph, David Gilmour, the Pinkfloidite, father of a rebellious, anti-system hooligan facing criminal offenses and his wife, along with another man -a photographer, entitled to cover the royal William-and-Kate wedding- and his wife. A glamorous drink in someone's hand. And I thought: "Jesus! That's what I call cultural aristocracy". The class struggle is still to blossom in this zoo.

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