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I was jolly pleased to get tickets for one of ACDC's London shows. Given that they sold out in under 30 minutes, obviously my use of the internet was mighty compared to everyone else who tried to get hold of tickets and failed. As I spend a lot of time out of the office at the moment, I carefully plotted my diary for last week around the concert: Tuesday night, ACDC, Wednesday get the early train to Edinburgh, Thursday it's Leeds, then Friday, Manchester. I was going to be whizzing round the country, but everything was planned to the second.
Gosh, I'm so dynamic.
Tuesday night rolled around. My companion and I rolled up at the 02 (which was crammed with Kerrang-Outangs*), had a drink, randomly met an old friend who I last saw in 2003 when we were trying and failing to get tickets for ACDC's last London show, and then we joined the queue. As we queued, the line came to a halt with the person in front of us. Earwigging, I overheard what was going on.
"Sorry, mate", the usher was saying to the crestfallen rocker ahead. "These tickets are for Thursday. You've got the wrong night."
I gave my companion an amused glance. Got the wrong night! What a moron! What sort of oaf would do that? I stepped up and gave the doorman my ticket with a flourish. "Here, my good man", I didn't say. "Two tickets for Australia's finest export, as you please."
He looked at my tickets. "Sorry, mate", he said. "These tickets are for Thursday. You've got the wrong night."
I looked at the tickets. Stamped on them, in huge letters, it read: Now look here David, you moron, these are tickets for Thursday. Thursday. Not Tuesday. Eeeh. I have to admit I was surprised I hadn't noticed that bit before.
I looked at my companion. My heart sank. On Thursday, I was in Leeds and on Friday I was in Manchester. I had meetings all day. Arse.
So it was that on Thursday afternoon I found myself giving the most rushed and incoherent presentation of my working life before pegging it to the stations and leaping on the last possible (and, might I add, outrageously expensive) train back to London. From Kings Cross I had to get to the O2 which wasn't made any easier by my discovery, when I arrived at the Jubilee Line, of a sign reading Because of the vague possibility that David might actually enjoy himself this evening, it has been decided to close the railway to the O2. London Underground only supports joyless toil. Pip Pip, Monty.
I cursed Monty and instead went outside and hailed the first passing cab. It was fifty quid.
I finally arrived 5 minutes before they came on stage, and you know what? They were great. Really good. So good, in fact, that I'm tempted by the show at Wembley in June, if anyone might care to join me? So good, that all the way through the concert I barely even thought about the fact that what with trains, the worthless comedy toy railway that London underground claims to run and taxis, getting to see them had cost me the better part of three hundred quid.
And then in the morning I got up first thing and got on the train back to the North.
*Kerrang-Outang (n): A short, fat hairy man who listens to a lot of rock & heavy metal.
Gosh, I'm so dynamic.
Tuesday night rolled around. My companion and I rolled up at the 02 (which was crammed with Kerrang-Outangs*), had a drink, randomly met an old friend who I last saw in 2003 when we were trying and failing to get tickets for ACDC's last London show, and then we joined the queue. As we queued, the line came to a halt with the person in front of us. Earwigging, I overheard what was going on.
"Sorry, mate", the usher was saying to the crestfallen rocker ahead. "These tickets are for Thursday. You've got the wrong night."
I gave my companion an amused glance. Got the wrong night! What a moron! What sort of oaf would do that? I stepped up and gave the doorman my ticket with a flourish. "Here, my good man", I didn't say. "Two tickets for Australia's finest export, as you please."
He looked at my tickets. "Sorry, mate", he said. "These tickets are for Thursday. You've got the wrong night."
I looked at the tickets. Stamped on them, in huge letters, it read: Now look here David, you moron, these are tickets for Thursday. Thursday. Not Tuesday. Eeeh. I have to admit I was surprised I hadn't noticed that bit before.
I looked at my companion. My heart sank. On Thursday, I was in Leeds and on Friday I was in Manchester. I had meetings all day. Arse.
So it was that on Thursday afternoon I found myself giving the most rushed and incoherent presentation of my working life before pegging it to the stations and leaping on the last possible (and, might I add, outrageously expensive) train back to London. From Kings Cross I had to get to the O2 which wasn't made any easier by my discovery, when I arrived at the Jubilee Line, of a sign reading Because of the vague possibility that David might actually enjoy himself this evening, it has been decided to close the railway to the O2. London Underground only supports joyless toil. Pip Pip, Monty.
I cursed Monty and instead went outside and hailed the first passing cab. It was fifty quid.
I finally arrived 5 minutes before they came on stage, and you know what? They were great. Really good. So good, in fact, that I'm tempted by the show at Wembley in June, if anyone might care to join me? So good, that all the way through the concert I barely even thought about the fact that what with trains, the worthless comedy toy railway that London underground claims to run and taxis, getting to see them had cost me the better part of three hundred quid.
And then in the morning I got up first thing and got on the train back to the North.
*Kerrang-Outang (n): A short, fat hairy man who listens to a lot of rock & heavy metal.
