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| Capitalism kills my vibe | Capitalism kills my vibe |
| (3 days later) | |
| Look, I'm not saying my childhood birthday parties were boring, but nobody actually summoned the police when my parents sang Happy Birthday to me, as happened to the Doherty family in north London this week. The staff at Clowntown, an indoor play centre in that well-known Taliban enclave of Muswell Hill, called the cops after father Colm started singing to his eight-year-old daughter Cara. He says they did it because he sang, whereas they told the Evening Standard they did so because he became aggressive when told to stop. (Given that all the kids were joining in with the classic – which is the climax of any party and a whole 16 words long – I might have looked a little bit mardy myself.) | |
| In any case, the family hadn't paid for the full "birthday package", so the human vocals were banned. They had tried to pay for it but been told it was unavailable, even though the birthday area turned out to be empty when they got there, and even though they ended up spending more on food and drinks (£300) than the birthday package cost. | In any case, the family hadn't paid for the full "birthday package", so the human vocals were banned. They had tried to pay for it but been told it was unavailable, even though the birthday area turned out to be empty when they got there, and even though they ended up spending more on food and drinks (£300) than the birthday package cost. |
| Nope, both cake and singing were verboten if you hadn't paid for a VIP pass to your own larynx, which is why the rozzers were rung and the savage insubordinate was sentenced to death. Sorry, I mean the officers left without pressing any charges – probably because they had more pressing matters to attend elsewhere. A cat gazing out of a window with a criminal intensity, perhaps. A leaf falling, possibly pushed, from a tree. | Nope, both cake and singing were verboten if you hadn't paid for a VIP pass to your own larynx, which is why the rozzers were rung and the savage insubordinate was sentenced to death. Sorry, I mean the officers left without pressing any charges – probably because they had more pressing matters to attend elsewhere. A cat gazing out of a window with a criminal intensity, perhaps. A leaf falling, possibly pushed, from a tree. |
| Demented as this story is, though, it's only capitalism followed to its logical conclusion. You haven't paid for it so you can't have it, even if that thing is you. Even when there's no fight left in your soul and you've given up, accepted all this commerce as a global inevitability and agreed to spend £300 on a bunch of eight-year-olds rather than turf them on to the pavement with a bag of crisps and a length of chalk – even then, capitalism still comes for your soul. It wants all of your fun in return for all of its boring. Even when your dreams of taking to the streets with a pitchfork and smashing up the banks have already been downsized – if they're anything like mine – to the rebellion of using your online banking security dongle to punch yourself in the head. | Demented as this story is, though, it's only capitalism followed to its logical conclusion. You haven't paid for it so you can't have it, even if that thing is you. Even when there's no fight left in your soul and you've given up, accepted all this commerce as a global inevitability and agreed to spend £300 on a bunch of eight-year-olds rather than turf them on to the pavement with a bag of crisps and a length of chalk – even then, capitalism still comes for your soul. It wants all of your fun in return for all of its boring. Even when your dreams of taking to the streets with a pitchfork and smashing up the banks have already been downsized – if they're anything like mine – to the rebellion of using your online banking security dongle to punch yourself in the head. |
| I went to a party of sorts at the weekend too. A Jay-Z concert in the Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park, which is, as you may have guessed, where the Olympics happened. The space had been covered with gravel and chicken shops and astroturf and dust for the Wireless Festival, as sponsored by various mobile phone firms and drinks companies. | I went to a party of sorts at the weekend too. A Jay-Z concert in the Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park, which is, as you may have guessed, where the Olympics happened. The space had been covered with gravel and chicken shops and astroturf and dust for the Wireless Festival, as sponsored by various mobile phone firms and drinks companies. |
| Jay-Z himself was brilliant, and loads of people had a wonderful night out in east London, which didn't used to have such large venues. Oh, but that site was a strange, alien desert of a place. My friends and I were lucky enough to have been given VIP wristbands that allowed us to go into a branded corporate "pod" – only, who could have guessed, the pod turned out to have about as much atmosphere as the Mir space station: some bouncers drumming their fingers while you drank your plastic cup of warm beer on your plastic folding seat, hoping for a cooling breeze beside a temporary wall. | Jay-Z himself was brilliant, and loads of people had a wonderful night out in east London, which didn't used to have such large venues. Oh, but that site was a strange, alien desert of a place. My friends and I were lucky enough to have been given VIP wristbands that allowed us to go into a branded corporate "pod" – only, who could have guessed, the pod turned out to have about as much atmosphere as the Mir space station: some bouncers drumming their fingers while you drank your plastic cup of warm beer on your plastic folding seat, hoping for a cooling breeze beside a temporary wall. |
| The more music events turn into this funeral for fun, the more I yearn for popstars like Bill Drummond, whose idea of a musical event, in the 1990s, was to drive to a Scottish island with the million quid his band had earned selling records and set fire to it. After the banknotes burned, he pointed out that there were no fewer apples on the trees, and no fewer resources in the world, beside a small pile of paper now turned to ash that might fertilise a few weeds. Drummond likes weeds. Indeed, just yesterday he announced that he is celebrating ragwort, a member of the daisy family that is currently in flower. He says ragwort is an unloved plant, a weed "that is never picked for posies, that grows between cracks in pavements, where other plants fear to grow". | The more music events turn into this funeral for fun, the more I yearn for popstars like Bill Drummond, whose idea of a musical event, in the 1990s, was to drive to a Scottish island with the million quid his band had earned selling records and set fire to it. After the banknotes burned, he pointed out that there were no fewer apples on the trees, and no fewer resources in the world, beside a small pile of paper now turned to ash that might fertilise a few weeds. Drummond likes weeds. Indeed, just yesterday he announced that he is celebrating ragwort, a member of the daisy family that is currently in flower. He says ragwort is an unloved plant, a weed "that is never picked for posies, that grows between cracks in pavements, where other plants fear to grow". |
| After the Jay-Z concert we walked for about half an hour, in our thousands, to try to get off the site. All sense of direction was surrendered to the newly built expanse of tarmac and concrete and confusing lines, which was tricky as I was marching and marching while desperate for the loo. When we finally came to a road, with a strange militarised feel to it, my friend and I crossed over to find one last bit of wilderness. Some overgrown bushes in the middle of a dual carriageway. We took it in turns to climb right inside those bushes and have a pee. And there, with the wild, unloved ragwort gently nuzzling my bum, I felt free. | After the Jay-Z concert we walked for about half an hour, in our thousands, to try to get off the site. All sense of direction was surrendered to the newly built expanse of tarmac and concrete and confusing lines, which was tricky as I was marching and marching while desperate for the loo. When we finally came to a road, with a strange militarised feel to it, my friend and I crossed over to find one last bit of wilderness. Some overgrown bushes in the middle of a dual carriageway. We took it in turns to climb right inside those bushes and have a pee. And there, with the wild, unloved ragwort gently nuzzling my bum, I felt free. |
| • This article was amended on 19 July 2013. An earlier version referred to the crescendo, rather than the climax, of a party. This has been corrected. |