A night at the opera

If I'd been brought up with a silver spoon in my mouth it would have been different. I wouldn't have to walk through life carefully balancing the chips that sit comfortably either side of my fat working-class neck. And therein lies the cause of Friday night's problem, a work related black tie dinner sandwiched between 2 parts of an opera. Not just any opera but an exclusive performance set in an old stone built barn (about 300 years old, set in the grounds of an old country estate) which could only hold 200 patrons, performed by an amateur company complete with an amateur orchestra (bar the conductor). Several things struck me during the night.

• The performers are unbelievably dedicated to rehearse for so many hours to make the performance as polished as it was (and some of them were extremely talented), though why they'd do that so that they could perform only once to a half drunk, overdressed bunch of snobs who are only there to say they'd supported the opera and been to ....on Friday and "wasn't it simply fabulous...." is beyond me. Too much in for too little out. The books just don't balance in my head.

• Drinking Bordeaux and Champers from 5pm on one the hottest days of the year is akin to doing the 4 man bob-sleigh at the winter Olympics without brakes or crash helmet and with your eyes closed. There's only going to be one outcome.

• Opera is a play ruined by singing.

• Why are there times when 3 or 4 characters are facing the audience all singing different tunes and lyrics. What the fuck is that about?

• Drink, me and cigarettes are the Holy Trinity.

I'd rather spend an evening naked, clubbing seal cubs to death with a blunt rusty ice pick dipped in chilli sauce than sit through one of those again, though I did have an out loud laugh at a lady in the chorus who overemphasised so much that I thought she'd just rolled in from a gurning contest after taking 10 E s.