It was a Friday night. I was at the Royal Arena in Copenhagen to enjoy Roger Waters – creative force behind Pink Floyd, protester, political provocateur, poet and progressive music pantheon. My seat was at the extreme front left of the balcony, parallel with, and high above, the edge of the stage – almost the…
We had organised our own triathlon down to London, clutching our £35 hockey tickets. We paced the drive, the walk and the tube stages perfectly, with smooth changeovers. The threatened 60 minute queue through security into the Olympic Park took a world record 3 minutes (including a frisk, but no urine samples).
They say that football has sold its soul to the media and to the middle classes. They say that it has become over-commercialised and lost its connection to the working class fan. I disagree.
So we went to see Australian Pink Floyd. The very name a strange juxtaposition. The quintessentially english Cambridge moody, dark, radical, intellectual (some would say over-intellectual) band mimicked by a group of fun-loving straight-forward Aussies.