Oh God. What have I done? Was about to book tickets for a gig and the conditions at the very end of the process said: “Minimum age 14”. I’m about 9 times older than that. It’s closer to my kid’s age than it is to mine and he’s in reception.
Still booked the tickets though so please, everyone, come with. I’d rather be one of many sore thumbs rather than one of a few. I refuse to acknowledge that socialising these days should be restricted to inviting people round for Ticket To Ride and a nice Merlot.
They want to see ID when I pick up the tickets. Perhaps I’ll use my paper driving license and RoA. I’ll still be allowed to go, right, once they see my date of birth? I’ve never had a fake ID before. Perhaps I need one now. The minimum age is explicit; the maximum age is implied.
I can still stand up for 3 straight hours I’m sure. I hope by the end of it I’ll be pleased I went rather than pleased I can go and find a chair now.
I hope the lights are low enough to hide my crows’ feet and the fact that I grow stubble rather than wispy facepubes.
I’m not a vain man, but I don’t want anyone wondering if I’m lost and there by accident. If I’m more than 10 minutes late I fully anticipate being asked by staff to wait downstairs and ring the kids I’ve turned up to collect rather than go in and look for them myself.
My one ray of hope is that surely in 2018 14-year-olds won’t want to go and watch a guitar-and-drums gig. It’s not like it’s trap-hop or drumstep; it’s hitting things with sticks and making those things go boom. If I steer clear of beeping and breakbeats I should be fine, right?
Oh no. They’re all going to be on their phones, aren’t they? Not just taking photos and videos but applying filters and captions and sharing them on social media hashtag lol out loud.
I do social media, obviously, but probably don’t mix in the same circles. I’m not uncool, just differently cool. I don’t have an Instagram or Snapchat account but I’ve been retweeted by CBeebiesHQ.
Will I, I wonder, enjoy a beer with my lovely evening out or require one to get through it and dull the pain in my legs after 150+ minutes of being on my feet? At least if it was a James gig there’d be a brief window in which being seated is encouraged.
(Are they still around? Or do they spend their evenings at home with Ticket To Ride and a nice Merlot now too?)
I know I’m meant to be off the age where I attend concerts at the Theatre Royal, not gigs above a bar. I’m meant to discover these via booklets printed on sturdy stock and sent to my address instead of posters printed on sheets of A4 pinned to a board next to a set of optics.
I’m not meant to watch new bands any more, clearly. I’m meant to watch Deacon Blue going through the motions or Michael Ball belting out randomly selected songs from musicals.
And I’m meant to have an interval during which I consume a little tub of ice-cream and discuss how he’s even better than the past 18 times we’ve seen him and where and when we’ll be able to watch him doing exactly the same show next.
I refuse.
That’s why next week I’ll be going to a gig with a couple of hundred teenagers, not fitting in, squishing a plastic pint glass as the crowd surges, drenching myself in beer and possibly - hopefully - enjoying myself.
If it’s awful then you’ll all just have to come round to mine instead next time and we can party until 7pm. Bring your own Fruit Shoots and we’ll listen to some Deacon Blue surrounded by Mr. Men books and the cast of Ninjago.
