I was at the Barbican recently, watching some high-end jazz piano, which was so-so if truth be told, and in the interval I was looking for a livener
and you know, because you are in a major arts venue, they have one of those glass-fronted freezer cabinets full of little pots of ice-cream, with flavours which dress the thing up, such as Madagascan Vanilla and Dulce de Leche, giving you the feeling that if you weren’t out of your depth with the extended jazz improv shit going on in the hall, you certainly would be with the ice cream, retailing at a modest £3.45.
After a moment of reflection, I concluded: fuck all of that. When there’s only a 95p difference between your miniature pot of ice cream and a bottle of overpriced bevy, the ice cream is not getting my vote.
This preamble is by way of outlining how…
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