Monday, 15 July 2013

Internet Friendly

Dear Josh

I am aware my previous review of your concert may have been a little.. stand-offish. Perhaps slightly formal, pragmatic and possibly even (although I'd be grateful if you didn't mention it to anyone) a trifle factual and altogether too based in reality.

Henceforth I assure you I shall relinquish all grip on said reality and make my stand in the internet friendly world of opinion and observation.

It was a hot day in Manchester and, it being the North of England and prior to the quite hideous weather experience we've been having lately (I'm given to understand it's called a "heatwave"), not something I was at all used to.

Therefore I was anticipating the onset of your concert with even more fervour than one could possibly expect. I had been walking through Manchester in very pretty sandals and stood in a queue for a reasonable length of time. Then I was told we were in the O2 customers queue and if we weren't O2 we had to go join another queue.

Now, although my sisters are not, and the tickets were purchased by one of them; I am an O2 customer. Sadly, I'm also English and therefore was constitutionally incapable of clarifying the situation with the nice man in the colourful jacket, because he was clearly working and I didn't want to interrupt. Therefore, I sidled sheepishly to the end of the other queue with my sisters in tow. That occupied the next hour or so, as we navigated our way around the vast majority of Manchester. Everyone else in the queue was very nice and gave us excellent directions - I met a family who had set up a pub in the time since the queue had formed. They were doing very well.

At some point the queue started moving. I, in my very nice sandals, teetered precariously towards the entrance in line with the queue. We passed a campsite or something en route, where I saw several people with security labels and suchlike. I was tempted to collapse into the arms of the nearest - there is a 50:50 chance of being whisked either backstage or to the nearest hospital in such an event, but as she was barely taller than I am, considerably slighter and also sufficiently older that I seriously worried about being required to call an ambulance for her if I tried to make her catch me, I chickened out.

Once through the door it took seconds for me to find my seat and plunk myself down. Having done so I determined that I should never move again. Until, of course, you spied me from the stage, summoned me up and spontaneously proposed to me1.

Having secured my seat I had freedom to observe my surroundings and I noticed that you had decorated your stage with the inside of your wardrobe. This brought up two questions:

  1. Just how many converse do you have?
  2. Where did you put them all while you had the storage lining your stage?

Before too long the music started. You're very good, you know.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank the fashion world on behalf of all females for this rage for squeezing well built men into the tightest possible pants. You should by rights have been singing soprano, Tariq made my eyebrows go straight up (hneh, hneh) and as if that wasn't enough, your rather beautiful lead violinist stood and nearly gave me a heart attack2.

Disappointingly, you showed no interest in me while you delivered your show. I was out of range of the lights when they were turned on, so I suspect you missed out on my allure. That's OK. After all, my hope is that I lose interest in you before I'm arrested, so technically I suppose I should be thanking you for your selective blindness.

I didn't stay behind to meet you after the show. I have no signature, lock of hair, chunk of flesh or restraining order to remember you by.

I will be more prepared at your next concert. I've taken notes and come up with the following plan:

  1. Arrive early and establish my premium position at the front of the O2 queue.
  2. Get through the door, stumble and "sprain" my ankle.
  3. Bat my eyelashes appealingly at anything male
  4. Be whisked backstage and fussed over, whilst I quite nobly insist that there is nothing wrong with me.
  5. Am escorted to my seat.
  6. After show sit quietly until someone calls up and asks me to leave.
  7. Explain that I was hoping for an autograph, but had hurt my foot on the way in.
  8. Have a private, post show meeting with Josh while he's still all sweaty and rowrr, and get that spontaneous proposal.

1 I have a script for such a scenario - I suggest you practise delivery of your lines (my first proposal - at least that I accepted - did not go according to plan and I am determined that the next shall be glorious).
2 Although I do suggest that in future you face the opposite way when bowing, so we get the most out of your wardrobe.

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