God hates classical music

Yes, I know it's hard, but I have proof.

The occasion was the Birmingham Arts Festival, held a few weekends back. On the saturday there was an open air concert in Centenery Square, with a varied program of rock, jazz, folk, ballet and orchestral music, culiminating in a live video hook-up to the Last Night of the Proms in London.

I thought I'd go - a bit of a spur of the moment thing, but it was a lovely day, the evening promised to be warm and balmy and I thought that it would be a pleasant event.

And it was free.

Now, I'm not being racist here (well, OK, I am) but do we have Scots blood in us? (I know some of us have Scotch blood, but I'm not keen on that sort of tipple). I HATE having to pay for things. It possibly comes of having an expensive boyfriend, but the idea of shelling out money to listen to music comes hard to me.

But this time it was free.

An entire evening - from 7:30 through to 11:00 - free, gratis, costs nowt.

Of course I went.

I missed the rock bit. I'd passed through Centenery square earlier that afternoon, which is why I decided to turn up later. I arrived just as the ballet started. Mixed - ranged from athletic to classical. Then we moved on to folk. Guitars - quite fun, very accomplished.

Then Jazz. The trumpeteer was good and saxaphone was heavenly.

Then the Birmingham City Orchestra came on stage. They teamed up with the Jazz players and had a bit of a jam session.

It started to drizzle. Only slightly, and stopped whenever the sax started up. No problem there then.

The jazz team left the stage. Still in non classical mode, the BCO played another piece.

It drizzled - a bit more consistently.

BCO moved into classical mode - Tchaikovsky, Mussorgsky, Elgar.

The heavens moved into drip mode - drizzle, squalls, showers

The orchestra finished. The link up with the last night of the Proms commenced; riproaring stuff, the usual programme of Sea Shantys, Rule Brittania, Land of Hope etc (as an aside, there was one suicidal American waving the Stars and Stripes in Rule Brittania, confirming my belief that the tourists we get over here leave their brain cells behind).

The heavens opened. OK, it may have been in disgust at the guy with the Stars and Stripes, but as we moved further into the Proms, it rained harder

and harder

and harder.

The crowd in Centenary Square wilted, until at last only a few 30 die hards remained, gamely hanging on for the finale.

Then there came a break in the performance (I think the conductor gives a speech at this point, just before the final rendition of Jerusalem).

The rain stopped. Well, come on, there couldn't be much left in the sky - most of it was in my shoes.

The Arts Fest organisers, those nice dry people on the stage, decided to call it a day (still trying to work out why - we couldn't have got any wetter). They brought the Birmingham Poet Laureate on to read a rendition of her latest work, which she did, in a voice as flat as a pancake (why is it that people think that if they put on an artistic voice they can call it poetry).

We dripped, realised we had stuck it out for nothing, and went home.

The clouds cleared, the stars came out, and from the heavens I heard a giggle.

OK, I made the last bit up, but that's what it felt like.

So, there you are. My latest theological insight. I could form a church based on that. It wouldn't be any less stupid than some of the cults we get around here.

Kabballah, anyone?