Mind The Gap

CHAPTER 7: Mind The Gap

I had a brainwave. I'd sell the tickets, make a few bob and go. Fuck the gig. I'm bored with the idea of the gig. I've had enough of the gig. It's 3 in the afternoon and I've had enough of the gig. I'll make a few bob and it's 100% profit. Can't say fairer than that. No one will mind. No one will mind because no one will know. Who's going to know? It's a standing gig. No seats. I'll sell the tickets and even if the PR people are there, they'll never know. It's not like at some Arena when they put all the hacks in the same row and what are yoou going to do then? There's Tom from the Mail and Dick from the Guardian and Harry from The Times and... a couple of Norwegian students sitting where Johnny Express should be. The Astoria's easy. Also, this is one of those one-off, pre-tour showcase gigs. One of those 'I've got a new album coming out and I'm going to do this little gig before I set off on the Stadium tour - for the fans.' The fans. There'll be hundreds of them milling about outside hoping to get lucky, hoping that some kind-hearted journalist will give them their "plus one" ticket out oif the goodness of their little journalistic soul. Don't laugh: I've done that. I've given tickets away. I once gave a Strokes ticket away when the touts were desperate, when they were gagging for it. There was this lovestruck couple, moping. They really wanted to get in and I had two tickets. Again, it was standing. Easy. What to do? Sell a ticket to the tout? Or give the ticket to the couple? It was raining. Cold. This couple were huddled together, hoping in that unrealistic way that is hope. I decided to be good. I'd give the ticket to the couple. Listen, it was cold and raining. But - and this is the but - but just as I handed over the ticket, I knew I'd made a mistake. They uncurled and both put out a hand. They both wanted it. They were going to squabble over it. I hadn't thought this through but this was going to cause grief. My act of kindness was going to cause this couple to fight, maybe split up. "But I thought you loved me". "If you really loved me, you'd give me the ticket". "And if you loved me you'd give me the ticket." (Actually what happened was this: I gave my ticket to the woman, obviously, because while I'm as new as a potato, I am at heart a man and a man never stops trying to impress women doesn't matter who they are. She took the ticket. They looked at each other, then went over to the tout. They sold the ticket and went out for a meal on the proceeds.) I wasn't going to do that again. This time I was going to tick the box marked "profit". Get a cab to Victoria. Maybe buy something. But somehow life never quite works out how you expect. I get to the Astoria. There are thousands of people milling outside, all walking around with intent. All looking pissed off. Slowly - no, quickly - it dawns on me that they're not punters at all. They're touts. And they've all got tickets to sell. And they're not interested in buying any others. So I hailed a cab to Victoria. Got the train home. Me and my two tickets. You can say what you like, but this would never happen at a Will Young gig.
Last night was the night of the Juicy Awards, my splendid wife's exotic creation, and it went, I think, better than anyone had a right to expect. Well, maybe it went as well as Gilly expected, but to me, this exceeded all expectations. Big and glitzy and star-studded - Norman was there. What can I tell you? I kvelled like a mother whose daughter was marrying a doctor. Ostrich feathers flew. There were a couple of dissenting voices but, you know, fuck it. I was going to bang on about haters (it's irony, silly) but I thought about it and thought I risked sounding like a Middle Aged Jewish version of the So Solid Crew. The Reasonably Solid Crew. The So Solidish Crew. Anyway. It was a fantastic night. A rare treat. It's a curious thing to see someone have an idea, to see them struggle to recognise it, to see them work at making it real, to see it happen. My wife the visionary! I played my part with gusto. Well,I was going to play my part with gusto, but gusto couldn't make it so I did it myself. I decided to model myself on Denis Thatcher. And, be fair, I think I did OK. It was a part I'd been waitintgfor all my life. Hanging around in the background, rabbiting and drinking vodka and tonic. (Yes, I know Denis was a G&T man, but the vodka was a personal touch). Did anyone ever think that, behind closed doors, Denis was really the power - the brains behind the operation - and not the emasculated old soak he appeared? Didn't think so cos no one made that mistake last night either. Butme and Denis, we know. We know the truth.