The dinosaurs are a bit of an 'in' joke.
Chris has an Offspring ticket, drunkenly autographed by Dexter and Noodles. Nothing too special at first glance I’ll admit, but then you notice: the ticket is in fact a seated circle ticket. You double take and look closer. Surely not, surely this can’t be right - but it is. It’s circle unreserved, and the lead singer and the guitarist have signed the back of the fucking thing. How? How did this ship-in-a-bottle of a memento ever come to be? Gather ye round friends, gather ye round.
So there was Chris, there was me. The two of us desperate to have some gig-related fun. We sat bleary eyed and semi-conscious, picking our way through this mountain of online quick sell bullshit. Keane, My Chemical Romance, and various other people who should never have been allowed to claim any instrument as their own, much less operate a musical one.
Band after band, click after click, disappointment after disappointment. The names faded into inconsequence, just another moniker lending as much distinction as a peanut in poop. Then there, in the proverbial dung pile; a glimmer, a shimmer, a ray of hope. Nestled quietly among an eighties throwback hair-do band and a group of men rejected for the role of extras in ‘Queen of the Damned’ lay the men we sought. A little aged, a little faded but it was them. Those pretty fly white guys were playing another date at the Brixton Academy. It wasn’t perfect, but it was doable. Without a moment’s consideration the credit card was out, the details were entered, and the money was quite, quite gone.
-*-
*BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP*
‘What?’ *alarm clock beating* “Uuuurgh”
That moment of zero recall.
The almost drunken fall from the bed to the floor. Then, like a man in bed with Kelly Osbourne I rolled over and screamed. What had I done?
If the question could have remained unanswered, perhaps that would have provided some kind of solace, but the print-out on my bedroom floor relayed the truth with the stark, unfeeling silence that only a piece of paper can.
[Confirmation of Purchase]
17.09.2005 The Offspring Live; Carling Academy, Brixton [Circle, unreserved] x2
£52.60
Doors 7 pm
What had I done? Had the fatigue and desperation driven me insane? Was I really that hung up on missing a Korn gig? I could have used that 52 quid to buy half an hour with a North London whore, or three days solid sex in Norwood. I had to put a brave face on it. I did it for Chris; after all, Chris would want to see Offspring live, surely I owe him that much, to not sully his expectant good mood.
-*-
“Fuck.”
Chris drained his pint and thumped the empty glass down on the table. “Can we not sell them? Ask for a refund?”
“Nah, man - not a chance. I reckon we get on to Penny, see if she can sort us out.”
“Oh, Miss ‘I’ll get you in to Korn, but not actually I’m lying to you’?” The effort Chris put in to insulting nicknames was really waning, “She’s going to help us out? Fuck off.”
“Well, I’ll have a natter with her, see what she says - if we can’t get in to VIP, we’ll just sell the tickets.”
“Yeah, go on - you getting these in?”
I nodded and walked up to the bar. To be honest I’d always thought Offspring would be shit live. Absolute dog balls. Now don’t get me wrong, I- oh, hang on
“Double JD and coke, and a Guinness for the big girl by the pool table. Heh - yeah, cheers.”
Like I said, don’t get me wrong; I love Offspring albums, it’s just I can’t really imagine the sound coming out well. I see the lead singer, whatever his name is, as a tiny little man who moves very quickly - the sort of man who’d spend at least half of his adult life kept in a jam jar on the bedside table of a little girl. He could fill a music video, but the whole of Brixton Academy?
Fuck off.
“Ta.” I sat back down with the drinks and started talking to Chris. In secret I’d already asked Laura and she’d seemed quietly confident she could pull it off, just for us two but still confident. Now to convince Chris it might be a good idea.
“I say we should go - half the crowd’ll probably be fourteen, but look on the bright side, you might pull.”
“Wanker.”
And so it was agreed.
-*-
17.09.2005
12:00 - Midday.
People begin to queue up outside Brixton Academy, their hope-filled eyes gazing wistfully up at the show title: “The Offspring: Live!” Maybe they thought maybe I’ll get close to him. Maybe I’ll be at the front. Just maybe.
*
At the Skinner household, things begin to stir upstairs. A hung over yet determined leg sticks itself out from under the covers and searches for the floor. The leg swings lazily left, then right, searching for the floor. A mumble and a burp are heard muffled partly by a wall of tog (not fog), and almost as silent as the wind itself, a small group of swear words, followed by incomprehensible cursing regarding the direction in which knees bend.
13:00
A group of a good twenty teenagers sit chatting outside the Brixton Academy - they talk about nothing in particular, previous gigs, Offspring albums, and how close they hope to get to the band during the show.
*
*RING RING, RING RING*
“Yes?”
*belch* “Chris, man. When we meeting up?”
“Fuck knows.”
“...”
“Mike?”
“...”
“Fuck it.” *click*
“.....zzzZZZzzz....”
17:00
The tension mounts in Brixton, the fans are now wedged in to the front of the line, people need to pee so bad but the Offspring maniac in them keeps them there. ‘Only two hours left, only two hours left’ the mantra repeats over and over; we can do it said the ego to the id.
*
“What about chickens?” He takes a toke, offers it across the table.
“I’m good, man. Chickens?” I honestly consider it a moment, taking a look around the park, trying to visualize them lumbering around. “Chickens could work.” I say, nodding in agreement.
“Yeah, chickens.” He says through a haze of weed smoke.
I sip from my beer. “Sure as hell be scarier than the fucking dinosaurs.”
19:00
This is the moment. This is why they’re here. At the rear of the queue, relief spreads as the damn thing gets moving. “Yaaaaaaaaay!” screams an over excited fourteen-year-old in baggy jeans. At the front of the queue, the Offspring hardcore strain themselves over the barriers, the sweat trickles off them, excitement blowing out every neuron in their brain. This is it. They’re in, the first, the front line. It’s finally happened. The memory of the wait melts away and all their doubts boil down to nothing. Born again they test the barrier to its limits, like an inflating balloon the mania swells and crashes against the metal barrier. Then, a soberly dressed security guard slowly eases the fences apart and the fans burst forth, flowing like water through the gap. The crowd sexual-innuendos its way up the stairs and it becomes a race. Tickets are checked, some unlucky souls are thwarted by bag searches, others breeze through, the stage calling to them. The first few orgasm their way through the doors and ride a wave of exultation to the very front. The support band is setting up and the air is heavy with expectations.
*
“Well obviously not scarier than normal dinosaurs, just ones in Tre- hang on a sec.” I check my watch. “Maybe we should head over to the bus stop, takes a while to get to Brixton.”
“Yeah, alright.”
Chris and I stand for the first time in two hours, perform a series of bizarre stretches and then meander down to the bus-stop.
20:30
The crowd stands motionless in the dark. The support bands were beyond bad, beyond eye-wateringly pathetic. They were two bops and a shimmy away from being Cheeky Girls. These fans had suffered enough. Three people along the front row had passed out, overwhelmed by wave upon wave of arse-tasting music. The fans were weary. Then, through the murk, a glimmer of hope. The silhouettes of the four they’d waited so long four. The lead singer raised his plectrum to sound the first chord. Then, something unfortunate happened for thirty-odd of those fans. Out the right-hand corner of their collective eyes they spotted what must have been the most soul destroying thing to have been witnessed since the end of the movie “A.I.”. One and a half hours late for the gig, strolling casually in through the stage entrance was a Chris and a Mike. And in front of them stood that fit medic bird he’d been eyeing up earlier. The skinny one points at the stage, and the two BASTARDS start pushing their way to the front.
*
I looked at Chris with a grin on my face. Laura had come through for us. We’d spent the past half an hour in the medical room eating discounted rat burgers, when we realized we had circle tickets. A lot of hugging and out-pimping-and-generally-owning-the-door-guy, Laura had got us in through the stage entrance. And we still had the after party to look forward to. We were happy. We walked out right next to the stage and were met by thirty or so of the most hate-fuelled, evil stares I have seen in my life. Considering our chances should the mosh pit extend to where we were, we headed for the centre. For the next forty-five minutes we ate the sweat, blood and tears of a thousand strangers, and I personally got kicked in the head more than a few times and lost my right shoe. Not wanting to leave, I hopped around wildly throwing the horns at every opportunity. Wishing the crowd really was made of fourteen year old pubescent girls, I forced my way over to Chris who seemed to have three people stuck to his various limbs. Just as I did, the sweaty skinhead with no shirt on (there’s at least one at every gig, this one had brought a mate) attempted to remove my right little toe with his shoe.
My vicious expletive was overwhelmed by the throng (not thong), and I near fell over. Then something unfortunate happened to me. The heel of another shoe hit my left foot hard. They must have been the only two people there not wearing soft-soled skater trainers and they’d purposefully hunted me down and maimed me.
“AARAGGGHGGH MOTHER FUCKEEAAUUURGH” Both feet now off the floor, I was held aloft by the crowd, being thrown violently left and right, suspended by the pressure from the shoulders around me. I hobbled over to Chris, sitting on a skinhead as I did so, and planted a pun on his arm “FANCY A PINT??!?!?” I screamed. Chris passed out.
...which I felt a fairly self-explanatory answer. I can only assume he then had a change of heart. In one smooth movement he regained consciousness, got his bearings, removed a mini-mosher from the sole of one of his shoes and nodded.
-*-
“You lost a shoe, I still can’t believe, HAHAHAHA, aww man - that was class, pure class.”
“Did you see the guy’s face when we walked in through the-”
“Yeah!!! He was all”
“HAHA! YEAH!”
The strains of the final chord rang out and the singer approached the mic.
“Thank you, good night!”
“Shall we go see your wife, then?”
“Yeah - better had do.” We walked down to the front again “Is that ... I .... OI! THAT’S MY FUCKING SHOE!!!”
--Submitted for your approval, the strange tale of two half-wit incompetents having the necessary social acquaintances to afford themselves preferential treatment. An occurrence possible only within the confines .... of the LJ zone.
**Tune in next time for Episode 2: Very Important Pricks**
So there was Chris, there was me. The two of us desperate to have some gig-related fun. We sat bleary eyed and semi-conscious, picking our way through this mountain of online quick sell bullshit. Keane, My Chemical Romance, and various other people who should never have been allowed to claim any instrument as their own, much less operate a musical one.
Band after band, click after click, disappointment after disappointment. The names faded into inconsequence, just another moniker lending as much distinction as a peanut in poop. Then there, in the proverbial dung pile; a glimmer, a shimmer, a ray of hope. Nestled quietly among an eighties throwback hair-do band and a group of men rejected for the role of extras in ‘Queen of the Damned’ lay the men we sought. A little aged, a little faded but it was them. Those pretty fly white guys were playing another date at the Brixton Academy. It wasn’t perfect, but it was doable. Without a moment’s consideration the credit card was out, the details were entered, and the money was quite, quite gone.
-*-
*BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP*
‘What?’ *alarm clock beating* “Uuuurgh”
That moment of zero recall.
The almost drunken fall from the bed to the floor. Then, like a man in bed with Kelly Osbourne I rolled over and screamed. What had I done?
If the question could have remained unanswered, perhaps that would have provided some kind of solace, but the print-out on my bedroom floor relayed the truth with the stark, unfeeling silence that only a piece of paper can.
[Confirmation of Purchase]
17.09.2005 The Offspring Live; Carling Academy, Brixton [Circle, unreserved] x2
£52.60
Doors 7 pm
What had I done? Had the fatigue and desperation driven me insane? Was I really that hung up on missing a Korn gig? I could have used that 52 quid to buy half an hour with a North London whore, or three days solid sex in Norwood. I had to put a brave face on it. I did it for Chris; after all, Chris would want to see Offspring live, surely I owe him that much, to not sully his expectant good mood.
-*-
“Fuck.”
Chris drained his pint and thumped the empty glass down on the table. “Can we not sell them? Ask for a refund?”
“Nah, man - not a chance. I reckon we get on to Penny, see if she can sort us out.”
“Oh, Miss ‘I’ll get you in to Korn, but not actually I’m lying to you’?” The effort Chris put in to insulting nicknames was really waning, “She’s going to help us out? Fuck off.”
“Well, I’ll have a natter with her, see what she says - if we can’t get in to VIP, we’ll just sell the tickets.”
“Yeah, go on - you getting these in?”
I nodded and walked up to the bar. To be honest I’d always thought Offspring would be shit live. Absolute dog balls. Now don’t get me wrong, I- oh, hang on
“Double JD and coke, and a Guinness for the big girl by the pool table. Heh - yeah, cheers.”
Like I said, don’t get me wrong; I love Offspring albums, it’s just I can’t really imagine the sound coming out well. I see the lead singer, whatever his name is, as a tiny little man who moves very quickly - the sort of man who’d spend at least half of his adult life kept in a jam jar on the bedside table of a little girl. He could fill a music video, but the whole of Brixton Academy?
Fuck off.
“Ta.” I sat back down with the drinks and started talking to Chris. In secret I’d already asked Laura and she’d seemed quietly confident she could pull it off, just for us two but still confident. Now to convince Chris it might be a good idea.
“I say we should go - half the crowd’ll probably be fourteen, but look on the bright side, you might pull.”
“Wanker.”
And so it was agreed.
-*-
17.09.2005
12:00 - Midday.
People begin to queue up outside Brixton Academy, their hope-filled eyes gazing wistfully up at the show title: “The Offspring: Live!” Maybe they thought maybe I’ll get close to him. Maybe I’ll be at the front. Just maybe.
*
At the Skinner household, things begin to stir upstairs. A hung over yet determined leg sticks itself out from under the covers and searches for the floor. The leg swings lazily left, then right, searching for the floor. A mumble and a burp are heard muffled partly by a wall of tog (not fog), and almost as silent as the wind itself, a small group of swear words, followed by incomprehensible cursing regarding the direction in which knees bend.
13:00
A group of a good twenty teenagers sit chatting outside the Brixton Academy - they talk about nothing in particular, previous gigs, Offspring albums, and how close they hope to get to the band during the show.
*
*RING RING, RING RING*
“Yes?”
*belch* “Chris, man. When we meeting up?”
“Fuck knows.”
“...”
“Mike?”
“...”
“Fuck it.” *click*
“.....zzzZZZzzz....”
17:00
The tension mounts in Brixton, the fans are now wedged in to the front of the line, people need to pee so bad but the Offspring maniac in them keeps them there. ‘Only two hours left, only two hours left’ the mantra repeats over and over; we can do it said the ego to the id.
*
“What about chickens?” He takes a toke, offers it across the table.
“I’m good, man. Chickens?” I honestly consider it a moment, taking a look around the park, trying to visualize them lumbering around. “Chickens could work.” I say, nodding in agreement.
“Yeah, chickens.” He says through a haze of weed smoke.
I sip from my beer. “Sure as hell be scarier than the fucking dinosaurs.”
19:00
This is the moment. This is why they’re here. At the rear of the queue, relief spreads as the damn thing gets moving. “Yaaaaaaaaay!” screams an over excited fourteen-year-old in baggy jeans. At the front of the queue, the Offspring hardcore strain themselves over the barriers, the sweat trickles off them, excitement blowing out every neuron in their brain. This is it. They’re in, the first, the front line. It’s finally happened. The memory of the wait melts away and all their doubts boil down to nothing. Born again they test the barrier to its limits, like an inflating balloon the mania swells and crashes against the metal barrier. Then, a soberly dressed security guard slowly eases the fences apart and the fans burst forth, flowing like water through the gap. The crowd sexual-innuendos its way up the stairs and it becomes a race. Tickets are checked, some unlucky souls are thwarted by bag searches, others breeze through, the stage calling to them. The first few orgasm their way through the doors and ride a wave of exultation to the very front. The support band is setting up and the air is heavy with expectations.
*
“Well obviously not scarier than normal dinosaurs, just ones in Tre- hang on a sec.” I check my watch. “Maybe we should head over to the bus stop, takes a while to get to Brixton.”
“Yeah, alright.”
Chris and I stand for the first time in two hours, perform a series of bizarre stretches and then meander down to the bus-stop.
20:30
The crowd stands motionless in the dark. The support bands were beyond bad, beyond eye-wateringly pathetic. They were two bops and a shimmy away from being Cheeky Girls. These fans had suffered enough. Three people along the front row had passed out, overwhelmed by wave upon wave of arse-tasting music. The fans were weary. Then, through the murk, a glimmer of hope. The silhouettes of the four they’d waited so long four. The lead singer raised his plectrum to sound the first chord. Then, something unfortunate happened for thirty-odd of those fans. Out the right-hand corner of their collective eyes they spotted what must have been the most soul destroying thing to have been witnessed since the end of the movie “A.I.”. One and a half hours late for the gig, strolling casually in through the stage entrance was a Chris and a Mike. And in front of them stood that fit medic bird he’d been eyeing up earlier. The skinny one points at the stage, and the two BASTARDS start pushing their way to the front.
*
I looked at Chris with a grin on my face. Laura had come through for us. We’d spent the past half an hour in the medical room eating discounted rat burgers, when we realized we had circle tickets. A lot of hugging and out-pimping-and-generally-owning-the-door-guy, Laura had got us in through the stage entrance. And we still had the after party to look forward to. We were happy. We walked out right next to the stage and were met by thirty or so of the most hate-fuelled, evil stares I have seen in my life. Considering our chances should the mosh pit extend to where we were, we headed for the centre. For the next forty-five minutes we ate the sweat, blood and tears of a thousand strangers, and I personally got kicked in the head more than a few times and lost my right shoe. Not wanting to leave, I hopped around wildly throwing the horns at every opportunity. Wishing the crowd really was made of fourteen year old pubescent girls, I forced my way over to Chris who seemed to have three people stuck to his various limbs. Just as I did, the sweaty skinhead with no shirt on (there’s at least one at every gig, this one had brought a mate) attempted to remove my right little toe with his shoe.
My vicious expletive was overwhelmed by the throng (not thong), and I near fell over. Then something unfortunate happened to me. The heel of another shoe hit my left foot hard. They must have been the only two people there not wearing soft-soled skater trainers and they’d purposefully hunted me down and maimed me.
“AARAGGGHGGH MOTHER FUCKEEAAUUURGH” Both feet now off the floor, I was held aloft by the crowd, being thrown violently left and right, suspended by the pressure from the shoulders around me. I hobbled over to Chris, sitting on a skinhead as I did so, and planted a pun on his arm “FANCY A PINT??!?!?” I screamed. Chris passed out.
...which I felt a fairly self-explanatory answer. I can only assume he then had a change of heart. In one smooth movement he regained consciousness, got his bearings, removed a mini-mosher from the sole of one of his shoes and nodded.
-*-
“You lost a shoe, I still can’t believe, HAHAHAHA, aww man - that was class, pure class.”
“Did you see the guy’s face when we walked in through the-”
“Yeah!!! He was all”
“HAHA! YEAH!”
The strains of the final chord rang out and the singer approached the mic.
“Thank you, good night!”
“Shall we go see your wife, then?”
“Yeah - better had do.” We walked down to the front again “Is that ... I .... OI! THAT’S MY FUCKING SHOE!!!”
--Submitted for your approval, the strange tale of two half-wit incompetents having the necessary social acquaintances to afford themselves preferential treatment. An occurrence possible only within the confines .... of the LJ zone.
**Tune in next time for Episode 2: Very Important Pricks**