popped along to Wembley arena last friday to see Paul Simon and his band.
Here’s a low quality picture of the Arena from the eerie-style position me and me ol’ mother had, clicky for bigness:
The gig was great, although it seemed to take about half-an-hour or so for the audience to warm up (“Me and Julio…” will get you up’n’dancing after all). Spoilt only mildly by the fuckwit in the row in front who wouldn’t shut the hell up either clapping, wooping or calling out during the quiet songs and helped the concert along with such wisdom as “You fuckin’ rock” during a guitar-soloed “Wartime Prayers”.
As I said to mum as we walked through the rain to Wembley Central, there’s only one word for people like that and it begins with “cunt”.
(‘Scuse the French)