Wednesday, 4 July 2012

STONE ROSES: MANCHESTER 2012

Wednesday, 4 July 2012
MINE ALL MINE.
So I’ll tell you, if you like, how Himself and I came to be at the Stone Roses gig this past Sunday in Heaton Park, in Manchester.

Like most Roses fans, over the years I had learned to pay very little mind to the frequent rumours of a big reunion. Many an arrogant drunken wager was offered up on many a Friday night, me slurrily offering my next born child/my right tit/a naked stroll down Northumberland Street should they actually reform in my lifetime.

But then! The rumours started to pick up a bit more speed and substance. I raised a sceptical eyebrow, maintained my cucumber cool and tried not to let anyone see that my guts were helter skeltering. But lo -- An Official Statement...like boom! Ticket sales announcement...like pow! Then all of a sudden I find myself at work on a Friday morning clockwatching for 9am with my credit card in my hot little hand to score me some tickets for a gig that I never thought would ever materialise.

Now, dear readers – you know I am old school. I’ve slept cross legged on a sidewalk in the rain to get tickets for gigs, I’ve tag-team queued in 6 feet of winter snow for Ticketmaster outlets to open. INFINITELY preferable to the maddening process of getting tickets to a show online, and I’ll tell you that for nothing. I just can’t be handling the stress of it! I do not like the lack of control! At least in a lineup, one can, if required, use one’s considerable girth as a human blockade. But in a virtual ticketing scenario, the scariness of one’s boots/voluptuousness of one’s arse is of little matter. All you can do is have twenty-five goddam web browsers open and F5 REFRESH F5 REFRESH F5 REFRESH hoping that you don’t lose your WiFi before you smash your keyboard to bits.

I mean. COME ON.

So there I was at work. I’m F5-ing like a motherfucker – phones are ringing and I’m ignoring them. People are querying and I am growling at them. Must refresh. Must refresh. 30 minutes goes by and I’m thwarted by every error message in the virtual world. F5, F5, F5. Another 30 minutes go by and I’m trying not to hyperventilate. I am sweating. My lips are pursed, my teeth are grinding. My eyes are little slits. I am muttering all the swear words and vitriolic filth I can call to mind.

THEN! Infuriatingly – a guy at my work comes flying into the room to boast that he got through and got some tickets.

AND THEN – AGAIN! Another guy at work comes flying into the room to boast that HE also got through and got some tickets.

I am livid. In normal circumstances, I’m not a big fan of hiding my emotions and am ready to throw an unholy wobbler of a strop, but I know I do not have time because F5 F5 F5 F5.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAND THEN?! Bam. I’m in. Credit card number entered in a feverish blur and ZING – confirmation of purchase email received.

I was going. I WAS GOING! I flung my arms up into the air and let out a victorious howl. I was going.

Fucking GET IN.

(Part 2 later.)

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