Wolves Riding Bears.

Less than an hour ago, I had the nicest kiss I have had in a long while. After watching Let The Right One In, a conversation via a typewriter, an verbal conversation, some photography, he left, kissing me goodbye.

That was nice. But I'm not to get my hopes up, apparently.

I get the feeling that British gig audiences haven't the capacity to physically enjoy any live music. You seem them, giving the musicians a weird air, like they're standing up at church. Occasionally, someone'll bob their head, and everyone will keep giving them odd glances until their innards burn away their esteem and they return to static, hands fixed in pockets. And it's a contagious atmosphere too, not unlike the ripple effect of yawns. When in that environment, it feels almost impossible to unlock yourself and open up a bit of fun and pure enjoyment. You feel trapped, constricted to awkward stances, shuffling your mannerisms from in the pockets, to crossed arms, to crossed legs, to moving about the floor to find a different position, only to remember that there is no right position; sadly, you wont escape it.

And there's always a massive gap between the stage and the crowd; just to not give any impression that they have come to see live music, despite the fact that they are staring at them like cats wrestling. It's often dotted with stray kids trying desperately to visually encourage worrying nerve-o's that it's okay to embrace the act with open arms; eventually, however, they stand alone, looking a little bit too enthusiastic, judged by the cynical cliental.

I think it's quite sad. I have always been favourable about that classic image of a corner-placed rock and roll band, with a grooving audience, enjoying the music and not drilling their empty eyes into the musicians as they play, but actually enjoying what they hear, like they would in a club. That's the ideal audience, rather than the typical, militaristic attention that is so forced.

Shape it up, Britain.