THOSE WHO THINK THE opera gang spends its time lounging about in some scented clubland Elysium nibbling on nightingales’ tongues and sipping ambrosia from chorus girls’ slippers will be sad to learn that — myself and a handpicked cohort of acolytes apart, bien sûr — it mostly skulks in Edmonton bedsits and is riven by a bitter factionalism rarely seen outside a Trotskyist section meeting.
Th ank God for the blessing of Twitter, say I, offering a glimpse into the maelstroms of loathing behind the blank faces of the warblers and scribblers
