Critics are invariably asteroidal pricks, and I’m not. I really am just the world’s greatest. So it was my birthday, see, and I was taking my Ma and Da to see Paul McCartney in Hyde Park.
We had a long lunch. What did we have? I hardly think this is the time*. This lovely lunch, (and it was a lovely lunch), aside from being an enjoyable part of the day in its own right, did impact on a full appreciation of the entire Sunday lineup. We missed Joshua Radin, who I’m only vaguely aware of; some almost-certainly-antipodean archangel of banality, whose soporific noodling about misplaced affection would have sent me on a willing one-way trip to a Swiss hotel room, and the divorcees and homosexuals in the audience into some massive, shuddering orgasm.