cheap as chips...not quite

“OMG I’ve just got free tickets for Guns ‘N’ Roses, quick type this website into Google”

I look like I’ve just been tasered as I frantically type in the web address under my colleagues command.

“OK now register for an account, quick” I do as I’m told.

“Right now enter the code”

“What code?” I reply half shouting.

“Oh God, follow me I think I still have it on my PC”

We both take to the floor in a sudden burst of ‘Challenge Anneka’.  He reads out the code and I scrawl it across my palm, in record time we are back at my desk and I’m typing the digits in a blur.  Another window pops up – How many tickets do you want?  My mouse pointer is all over the screen as my body is going into a nervous convulsion through fear of not getting these tickets.  I wouldn’t mind but I don’t even like G ‘n’ R!?  Seconds later an email comes through, Congratulations!  You have two free tickets. Result.  You can’t beat a bit of spontaneity and for free too…bonus.

As we drive into Manchester, the Oracle says in his infinite wisdom says “I know exactly where to park”.  I role my eyes, I just know this is going to be painful.  I spy down at my Birkenstock's and smile, thank God I chose flats.  Having parked over a mile away we began the epic trek to the M.E.N Arena to exchange the email confirmation for the real deal.  We’ve been walking for 10 minutes at warp speed and I can feel the soles of my feet start to burn.  As we approach the box office the floor is littered with teeny head bangers waiting to experience the thrill of a rock gig and my feet now feel like they’ve been dowsed in petrol and set alight, burning and stinging with every step. I slip off the shoe from my left foot and on the ball of my foot a 2 inch bubble of liquid has been kindly delivered to me. Great, I’m going to be on my knees walking home, I just know it.

Tickets collected, we are out the door and into the pub.  My first pint is liquid gold. It’s my night to drink and I’m gonna make the most of it. We view an array of menus before deciding pub grub will do and as I place my order at the bar, “2 Cajun chicken burgers and 2 bowls of hand-cut chips please” the guy behind the till raises his eyebrows and says “And 2 bowls of hand-cut chips?”  I look left, I look right and then back at the barman “Err, yes please”.  20 minutes later the table comprises of 4, yes 4, bowls of chips and 2 pieces of Cajun chicken that you could hammer a nail with.  It would seem that the barman failed to mention that the burgers already came with chips! And at £30 I think it’s safe to say we were shafted.

Moving on swiftly we meet up with my buddy and his Dad; meat inspector Stevo (as his son affectionately calls him) where we chat about all things musical and catch up on the latest gossip at work. Not wanting to miss the supporting act (Thin Lizzy) they leave at 7.30pm prompt but my husband, not wanting to conform, insists we head out for more drinks and of course I don’t object.  When we finally arrive in the arena and to my surprise I hear my name shouted from somewhere in front, but I can’t see a face.  As the crowds clear I spot the unforgettable face of Paul Regent, a tall skinny lad that I had a major crush on in my final year of secondary school.  Naturally he looked older (as no doubt I did too) but his once delicious fiery red hair was now a dull brown and he looked rather like David Seaman in the bosh light (sans the facial fuzz!).  Without being modest, I like to think I have the Ugly Duckling Syndrome.

I’m on my 5^th pint of cider now as we make our way down to our seat.  It’s almost 9pm and Thin Lizzy are still going strong.  “Isn’t the main band supposed to come on at 9?” I mouth to my fella over the noise.  He shrugs looking as confused as me.  The next time I look at the watch its 10.15pm and there are no signs that the old timers donned in tight leather are stopping.  An image flashes in my head; Thin Lizzy playing continuously on stage, ageing before my very eyes. Shrinking and wrinkling, their music slowing down like an LP on slow play until they eventually halt and turn to dust.  If only...

Bang on 10.30pm the band offers their gratitude to the fans below and depart.  40 minutes and 10 Mexican waves later the lights are cut and Axl Rose bounds on stage sporting a Texan Stetson, a 70’s porn ‘tash and a face a tight as a melon in Lycra. Grim.  Nevertheless, he’s banging out the tunes and the crowd is going wild.  It’s now 1.00am, I have consumed 7 pints of alcoholic beverages and my vision is nothing but blurry, both he and I have had enough and so exit the concert.  Crap, I’ve totally forgot about Himalayan slog back to the car and in my heavily drunk state it’s one step forward and 2 steps back.  My man is less than impressed. “You’re a nightmare when you’re drunk, why can’t you be more like me.  I’m a great drunk”.  There is only one word that can be used here, DELUDED.  When I finally enter the car park a good 10 minutes after my man I can see he’s not a happy bunny.  The fee is £15.90, I swear I can see steam escaping from his ears and nose and then the ticket machine won’t take his notes… Sensibly I walk straight past and leave him to it.  This so called ‘free’ night has cost us £80.

Rough does not even come close to how I’m feeling.   Do you know how difficult it is to pretend you don’t have the worse hangover in the world?  Well I’ll tell you – it’s HELL.   It’s even worse trying to conceal it from your husband who has a smug ‘I told you not to drink too much’ face on.  Hobbling about the bedroom I prepare to slap on the war paint.  I decide to go for the bright eyed look with lilac eyeshadow and blue mascara, but if I’m honest it probably only enhanced the dense yellow of my eyes.   Wincing as I squeeze on a pair of kitten heels I pray to the good Lord above that he will take pity on me. And he does. I’m left to get on with my workload in peace as I intermittently swear I will never drink again, well not on a school night...

Hugs and kisses

Miss Piggy x