At a recent screening of There Will Be Blood, the film's title should have been a warning to the couple in front of me, who insisted on providing a running commentary throughout the entire thing. And the old boy at the Wigmore Hall a week earlier whose wheezy breathing perfectly mimicked an unserviced air con unit? The performer was coolness personified. My reaction, I'm afraid, was not.

I blame the Bard. Yes, Shakespeare. It's all his fault. The Globe's mosh pit by the stage wasn't just for the poor and needy, you know, but for the loud and screechy. Plays like A Midsummer Night's Dream and Macbeth actually pander to the oiks at the front with their bawdy humour and titillating verse. "Oh, no he didn't!" I hear you cry, "Oh yes he did, I'm afraid."