Clappers.

I’m thinking about starting a charity for people who can’t clap in time at gigs...

You see them, don’t you; big smiles on their faces, happy to be out of the house for an evening, probably the first concert they’ve attended since the baby came, energetically carb-fuelled after their Pizza Express pre-concert dinner (which they paid for using Tesco Clubcard vouchers), two-stepping and clapping to a beat which seemingly only they can hear, because it’s certainly not to the same song the other 12,000 people in the arena are listening to. And don’t get me wrong, I’m not angry; if anything, I’m envious. Just like Phoebe running in Friends, they’re in their own world and they do not care what those surrounding them think. They do not need a Headspace subscription. They are present. Sure, sage thinkers have suggested that ignorance is bliss, but if that’s the case, why do we crave the need for knowledge? Why, when I’m stood watching a solid 9/10 performance by one of my favourite musical artists, backdropped by a well-orchestrated, carefully planned, and fantastically executed light/laser/smoke/VT show, can I only focus on that dude, four rows in front of me, just slightly to the right, clapping like a man with severe anaphylaxis trying to swat away a vengefully caffeinated wasp?

Picture - Elbow at Castlefield Bowl.