Kevin Bridges at the Aplollo

The surprising thing as we entered the Apollo were the signs forbidding not only recording of the show, but also heckling. Is this because Kevin is a particularly delicate flower? Well no/ It soon transpired that the problem is the Kevin Bridges audience. They are stereotypical Scots, even down in London. So that meant in large measure half drunk. Which has two consequences, a regular stream of people needing to get out of their seats for the loo, and lots of heckling. Well, not what I would call heckling so much as random shouting from the crowd. They also didn't seem to have much of an idea of how you listen to an act, ie you don't just carry on conversations yourself. One of my friends loudly asked if someone could ask the group in front of us to speak up as he couldn't quite hear them over the comic. But not too loudly as when Kevin Bridges recounted a story about doing a gig at a particular Scottish prison, the bloke whooped and put his hands up, obviously proud of having served some time there. Yes, it was that sort of audience.

Kevin, in his trademark Glasgow accent, was very good. He has an excellent flow, and while I can't say there were any killer stories or jokes, one was always entertained. An example was his complaint about overseas hotels telling you that wi-fi is only available in the foyer. "So you don't mind me masturbating there? Despite the probable bad reviews on Tripadvisor."

To be fair, if anything his support, Romesh Ranganathan was if anything better. He is one of the better ethnic comics, in that he uses his ethnicity to be genuinely funny rather than to get easy laughs from a middle class audience on a guilt trip. Loved the bit about how he was inspired by the UKIP manifesto to ask his mum what she had done for the nation. "And frankly I wasn't too impressed by her answers."

Cocktail Party

A new venue for theatre for me - the Coronet in Notting Hill. Its in the process of renovation, and not very far down the line. The theatre space doesn't even have seats, just wooden chairs bolted into place. Walls are unpainted, but the downstairs bar, for all its sloping floor, was actually a very attractive shabby chic. I would have happily gone there for a drink and in terms of a bar it was far better than most West End offerings.

Alas I couldn't say the same for the play. And I don't think that was all down to the wretched cold I was coming down with.

We started with a lecture about the play and its connections with both a Greek tragedy and the author, TSElliot's, strong Anglo-Catholic faith. That was helpful in understanding the play. But one shouldn't need a preview. And all it really explained was why it had been written that way, not why it was so poor a subject. The cocktail party is about love and relationships, but in a horribly dry, academic, pretentious, intellectualising manner.

The cocktail party, with which the play starts and ends is a stilted affair with a group of completely unbelievable characters acting in ways only theatrical types would imagine of a group of upper class people of largely indeterminate occupations. The person missing from the starting line-up is the main protagonist's wife who he says has had to leave to look after a sick aunt, but later admits she has left him. For no specific reason. The uninvited guest who no one seems to know promises to get her back on the condition he doesn't ask why she left. If this all sounds baffling and preposterous, well it was. An interminable second act is I think meant to bring out that some people have to recognise love for each other and make the best of their partner's faults, while some are destined to love as in charity and god rather than other people. So the young female guest at the first party we are told at the end went off to become a missionary and was crucified by non-Christian savages in some untamed island in the Far East, This revelation which in any normal play would be the crushing denouement is instead delivered deadpan, and doesn't much interrupt the party.

This is a woeful play from another era where there were people who had infinite amounts of time on their hands for pretentious and arid debate.

On Blackheath

A new festival for me - On Blackheath. Fortunately the weather was as good as one could hope for in September. This was very family orientated and middle-class - lots of small kids, picnicking and sponsored by John Lewis. As likely to acquire champagne and Pimms as a pint of rubbish lager. All at eye-watering expense of course.

I got there in time to join a tiny group in front of the first act on the Main Stage, Kyle Riabko. Pity as he was really good. He was there to plug a musical in the West End - Bacharach Reimagined. But that was ok. A selection of old familiar standards from the great American songbook was a perfectly pleasant start to a festival, and he was a very decent singer. Best moment was his quick ad lib in Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head ("I hope not").

  

 

Next up was Venice Trip, a band that had won some sort of competition to take up the early part of the Festival. If you like throwbacks to the Seventies, or even Sixties, this was for you. Heavy-ish rock, rambling prog rocks overtones and lots and lots of hair.

Jack Savoretti was the first name act on the bill. Personally the gravelly voiced singer songwriter with the guitar is just too crowded a field at the moment. He was perfectly good in the role, but it just doesn't do that much for me.

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Now onto the first act I really wanted to see. Off to the main tent stage to see Temples, fortified by a chocolate crepe which Roma had valiantly queued for. Thanks Roma.

I do love Temples, and their set even included one new song, Henry's cake, to add to their collection on their debut album Sun Structures. Psychedelic rock played by a skinny bunch of boys who probably get sand kicked in their faces on the beach, but then again probably don't venture outside much. Good stuff though. Singer Edward Bagshaw seemed to be in constant dialogue with roadies over his pedal board, but the sound seemed fine to us.

After a quck toilet break it was off to the Main Stage again to settle down for the rest of the evening. First up the veteran Welsh rockers the manic Street Preachers. They produced a terrific energetic set including most of their best known hits. A very enjoyable set

They ended their set by blasting confetti out into the audience. Always a fun effect.

  

So that just left Elbow to top the night. Guy Garvey as genial as ever. Both the Manics and Elbow made much of this being their last gigs  for a while. Well, sad not to see these two sets of consummate professionals at their craft, but then again, one doesn't know how long "a while" might be. Maybe back for next year's festival season? I think I can hold out ok until then.

Nice the Elbow got the sing a long "one Day like This out of their system rather early instead of finishing on it. Grounds for Divorce was their chosen parting shot, somewhat surprisingly not being followed by an encore. Still we managed to escape from our place down at the front while most were hanging around for the non-existent encore, so suited us in getting to the DLR before the masses. A good day.