Plebs

An Opera singer, yesterday

By Lydia Muff-Footle 

Last Thursday I attended the opera, not an unusual occurrence but one that on this occasion was severely marred by new comers who simply did not know the Rules. My god, it was appalling; at one point the performance was RUINED by a bunch of upstart ‘culture’ bloggers, amateur writers and other riff raff who actually gave a smattering of applause at the wrong point in the performance. It’s BETWEEN THE ACTS morons, not at a scene change. 

Jesus Christ.

Regular readers will know that I’m a non-judgemental, calm, balanced woman who doesn’t force her opinions down other people’s throats, but when I read this article by one of the aforementioned bloggers, I simply had to speak up against the clueless twat. No offense hun. 

When I first met my darling Benjamin he took me to the opera for the first time. Now I could have gone, been myself, relaxed and enjoyed it as a beautiful and special experience but frankly I have more sense. There are Rules to follow and I made sure I Googled the hell out of them before I went. That’s the difference between being bought up and being dragged up isn’t it? Some of us have the decency to blend in with the crowd and accept that we are humble in the face of the unwritten Rules of such events and others just ‘go with it’ and ‘be themselves’, like that’s something to be proud of. It was no fun for me running up massive credit card bills to buy the correct dress and shoes for the occasion, or spending three sleepless nights frantically learning the difference between bel canto and verismo, and memorising the complete English translation of Pagliacci. I did it anyway because I didn’t want to embarrass anyone and be laughed at by the people who matter. Why should these new opera goers get off any more lightly, in their unfashionable jeans and threadbare t-shirts, all agog at the beauty of the piece. 

Bloody plebeians.