As the crowd wait expectantly, the mood palpably begins to shift, from one of anxious-excitement to anxious-irritation. She’s almost an hour late, the group seem to think as one; all that anxiety has transformed them into a buzzing hive-mind. Dangerous.
Then, finally, like the tide coming in, a ripple of silence makes its way from the front row all the way back to those bearded old blokes that are to be found at the back of every gig, ever, engaged in esoteric nodding.
The lights dim.
On stage, appearing to have been literally pushed, a single diminutive figure reluctantly makes their way to the mic-stand.
The audience, as one, hold their breath.
She speaks thusly: Er, guys – hey there – thanks for coming out to see me tonight – appreciate it – but – erm – the thing, the issue, the nub, is – I haven’t really got anything to say.
A mumour of confusion, the shifting of feet.
The thing is, I was pretty proud of my early stuff, but the well’s run dry, man. And, I know, I know, I promised y’all posts about the NHS, Right to die – but really – what have I got to say that hasn’t already been said more coherently, pithily, succinctly by countless others?
Ema, I love yooooou! Some handsome and intelligent looking fellow shouts.
Thank you *bashful wink* – What I’m saying to you tonight is, I’m not going anywhere, but you know, try not to expect too much – ’cause – like late 90s band Mansun – I can only disappoint you.
In a hail of bottles, she exits the stage.