Beethoven. Rimsky-Korsakov. Modest Mussorgsky. Ravel. All, in their own way, geniuses. All managed to capture something, a passing moment, and tie it to paper without crushing it. Through many years of performances, some of the world’s most gifted musicians have honed, interpreted, practised these works, giving us some truly precious recordings.
You are not one of them.
Yes, you. You, with the fucking mobile phone. Sitting behind me in the “no mobile” section of Virgin Trains’ “doesn’t tilt yet but it will, honest” train.
Yes, well done, that was Night On A Bare Mountain. Truly, reducing it to a succession of shittily modulated bleeps has crystallised the listening experience. Those were real tears in my eyes.
Ah, the recital has moved on. Bolero never sounded so spare, so stark, so winsomely dorkish.
No, I have no desire to hear Per Elisa (Socially Stunted Fuckwit arrangement).
Please, I would rather eschew the Flight Of The Digital Bumblebee.
No - please! Not the 1812 Overture! (But my, don’t those cannons sound authentic…)
What possesses these people? Why, whenever I board a train, am I followed by an apparently endless cavalcade of people who not only won’t switch off their fucking mobiles, they wish to try out every single fucking ring tone? PUT IT ON VIBRATE AND SHOVE IT UP YOUR ARSE!
Sorry, I realise mobile rants are, like, so last millennium, but this happens every time I get on a train. Fuckers.