Audience participation is the bane of my existence. I work hard, Mr. Rock Star Man. How do you know that I wouldn’t rather just sit back and listen quietly? Maybe I don’t want to dance. Maybe I’m too spastic to clap in rhythm and if you try to make me maybe I’ll become all self-conscious and distracted and weird. What are you, my mother? Do you think you can just boss me around? Issue commands for me to “start acting like I’m having fun” and I’ll just leap to my feet and start screaming? How do you know whether I’m having fun? And why do you keep saying you can’t hear me? Is it maybe all the hearing loss you’ve incurred over the years? Listen, I paid an ungodly amount of my hard-earned money to sit in a little plastic seat in this huge stadium and I didn’t do it so that you could spend all evening talking about how I’m not living up to your expectations. I’ll get up and dance if I feel like it, but right now I’m not feeling very effusive, so can we just get on with the show?