I'm So Lonesome I Could .... (not go to a concert)

When one makes the decision to pack up one’s entire life and move to the other side of the world, completely alone, one inevitably gets called both brave, and downright insane. About nine months ago, I did just this. With no place to stay, a job I knew nothing about secured four days before leaving, and no friendship ‘group’ in London, I packed two bags and boarded a plane. Yes, it was insane. People wondered how I could do this without a boyfriend in tow, or a kindly aunt to stay with on the other side. Quite simply - I’m an only child, I’m a strong, independent woman, and I’m used to making my own way in the world. I don’t need to plan my life around other people, because I’ve found that in doing so, far too many opportunities are missed. If I waited around for someone to accompany me on all of my travels, I would never go on any. 

And so, here in London, time passed, and I did many things: I went to concerts, I went to bars, I went on trains. Sometimes I went with friends, sometimes I went with the intention of meeting up with friends - and sometimes I went completely alone. And all of these options were perfectly fine. It was fine to travel to Birmingham alone to see Amii; it was fine to go on a weekend away in Brighton with Catherine; it was fine to roadtrip to Liverpool with my mom; it was fine to get a 6am train to Manchester to visit Megan. Even better were the concert escapes - King Charles with Amii; Kodaline with Sinead; Taylor Swift with my mom. But do you know what was also perfectly fine? Getting the early train to Cambridge and wandering around all day by myself. Making the trek to Milton Keynes to sing my lungs out to Arlandria at a Foo Fighters gig, alone. I never felt strange. If I wanted to do something, why couldn’t I do it alone? Why should I wait for someone else to do it with me? My friends don’t expect me to go to the gym with them, so why would I expect them to go to the Foo Fighters with me? Does anyone look at you strangely when you’re at the gym alone? No. So why would I get stared at if I was at a Fall Out Boy show solo? 

And so out of the 19 concerts I have attended this year, 5 have been completely alone. When I purchased tickets for a recent show, I was quite surprised when a note on the website told me that tickets may only be available in sets of two or more. What if I wanted to go alone? Luckily, I was able to purchase a single ticket for this specific show, and I put this detail out of my mind. 

And so November arrived, and with it, Imagine Dragons at the O2. I hit StubHub for a resale, only to find out that almost all tickets (save for extremely expensive ones, at three times the average price) were only available in sets of two or four. Why should I be penalised for not having a plus one? Naturally, I took to Twitter for a little rant, and was advised by a follower to simply purchase two tickets and offer one to a friend in exchange for drinks. And I’m 100% sure this follower was trying to be friendly and helpful, but unfortunately, things aren’t always that easy. I do not have a friend to take with me. I have absolutely no choice but to go alone, and the fact that I am prohibited from buying a single ticket makes it impossible to do so. Why is it that I have to miss out on events I wish to attend, due to the fact that I am ‘single’? And by ‘single’, I do not mean that I don’t have a boyfriend. I mean that I am one person, doing my own thing in the world, and I will always be so. I am certain I am not the only person in the world who is dong life alone. 

And what does such a restriction say to young human beings, who are constantly being told to ‘you do’, and ‘live your best life’? Websites are full of inspirational crap like how being in a relationship shouldn’t define you, you can be just as happy single, be content with who you are as a person, blah. blah, blah. Sure, I’d be really content if I could just attend this concert! In 2015, why are social norms like this still being thrust at us from every angle? How is not being able to buy a single ticket for an event any better than banning certain people from an event, on any other basis? This tells me that by ‘not having friends’ or ‘not having a boyfriend’, I don’t deserve the perks that are in place for people who follow norms perfectly. Is it not bad enough that when living in a studio flat, I was charged extra tax for ‘being single’, as it was ‘assumed by the council’ that studio or one bedroom accommodation would be shared by a couple? Is it not bad enough that the cost of everyday living assumes that all human beings are cohabitating with a romantic partner by their early twenties? And yes, most people are doing so, but aren't we past the stage of having to conform to what 'most' people are doing? If that’s what you’re doing, that’s absolutely fantastic for you - so you continue to do you, and I’ll continue to not do me. I’ll begin to believe that maybe I am strange and wrong and failing at life, all because I’m being told I can’t go to a concert alone. Fine then, you just stop going to gym alone. Don’t dare go for a jog by yourself. You know what, you should probably get all 17 of your housemates to go with you on the Northern Line tomorrow morning, because how could you do anything alone? 

And before you tell me that I am blowing all things out of proportion, and I’m talking about resale tickets here, and obviously the couple is trying to sell because they both can’t go… why do ticket resale websites allow sellers to specify how many tickets they want to sell, but don’t allow buyers to choose the number to buy? I’ll tell you why: because no one wants to sell one ticket in a pair and risk not being able to sell the other, because ‘no one goes to concerts alone’. But that’s rubbish. That’s the norms of society making you believe that no one should go to concerts alone. 

What’s next, then? Train tickets only available in sets of two? Having to prove spousal accompaniment before I can get on an aeroplane? Why should people not be able to do the things they want to do, by themselves? Because I do have friends, I have a number of wonderful, amazing friends, and some of them will travel halfway across the country to go to concerts with me, and others will book spontaneous weekends away with me, or make food with me at 2am, or say just the words I need to hear, when I need to hear them. And I'm confident enough in those friendships - and in myself - to not have to spend every single moment of my life in company. Because, you know what, not everyone conforms to the norms of society. Not everyone is going to stick themselves in little boxes on the hillside, produce 2.4 children, adopt a labrador and spend their Saturdays adding a new coat of paint to their white picket fences. I mean no offence. I know that one day I too will be painting a white picket fence, even if I'm doing it alone, and switching the kids for kittens. I’m not saying I want to spend my entire life isolated, I’m simply saying that I want to go sing along to ‘Radioactive’ tomorrow night, and I want to do it alone. Simple. 

The Road to Muse in Rome

You know that awkward moment when you travel around Europe spontaneously, and don't spend enough time creeping tour dates, meaning that you end up in the same city as one of your favourite bands, but without a ticket to their sold out show? What, that's just me? Oh. 

Way back in 2008, I'd barely even heard of Muse, so I gave absolutely no thought to the fact that they were in SA... they were filed away with The Killers, in that section of my mind reserved for bands that sounded scary. And there they stayed for approximately... well, the month or two that came between their performance at Coke Fest, and they first time I listened to 'Starlight' properly. I do apologise, Matt Bellamy, your band is awesome. 

And so I spent the next 5 years thinking that it would be pretty cool to see Muse if we happened to be on the same continent... I mean, I'd be willing to do a little traveling for them, but nothing that involved flying across an ocean. Unless, of course, that 'ocean' was just the English Chanel, and Muse just happened to be performing in France when I was in the UK to see The Killers! Unfortunately this plan quickly unravelled when I found out that their Paris and Nice shows were both sold out. Hence I ended up arriving in France the day after their Paris show, and 3 days before the Nice show. Aw, sadness, but I'd get over it.

Roll on the 4th of June, when I sat in a hotel room in Florence, Italy, plotting my route to Rome. I frowned to myself as I attempted to dredge up some vague memory ... Muse... tour... maybe I read that they were playing in Rome... on the 6th... hold on a second ... THAT'S THE DAY I GET TO ROME! The fact that the show was sold out did nothing to diminish my excitement this time: I'd discovered a handy little website called Seatwave, that claimed to still have tickets. 

Now, I'm very wary when buying tickets from anyone but the official retailer. I'm even warier when I have to pay online using my credit card as there's no outlet, and even more so when I find out that I won't be told where to collect my tickets until I have paid for them. I hesitate and eventually decide to make a call on the day of the 5th, I'll give myself some time to think it over, because this could go very, very wrong. Seriously, how would I know if it's some kind of scam, run by a corrupt computer nerd who's now using my credit card details to book himself a quick getaway flight to a remote part of Colombia? 

So what do I find myself doing on the 6th of June at around 12pm? Using the hotel's computer to purchase two tickets for Muse at Stadio Olimpico, Roma, Italia. My feelings of dread only increase once the booking is final, and the address for collection is given as a mail box. Huh? It's with some trepidation that we make our way to the general region around 3.30pm (collection time is 5pm sharp), and by the time we've located the correct street and walked up and down it twice without finding mailbox 1, you could say I've hit, well, Panic Station. Popping into a hairdresser's near the end of the road proves to be my saving grace: at my request for directions to number 1, the receptionist smiles and asks "Tickets?" then points me down a flight of stairs next door. Aha! So it does exist. 

In that case, we may as well walk around a bit and kill time before we collect the tickets. The weather's looking a bit ominous, but it's nothing to worry about, surely just a few clouds that'll blow over long before the show starts. Other than that, it's been another beautifully warm day in Italy, and I'm in jeans and a t-shirt, with a thin jacket just in case the temperature drops during the show. 

We set off across the road to the Piazza del Popolo, and are happily snapping some pictures in front of a fountain when the first drop of rain hits the top of my head. I don't even bat an eyelid. Then I feel the second one. And the third. That's when I notice the tourists running. Not even just speedwalking to the nearest bit of shelter, I mean flat-out, omg-there's-a-monster-chasing-me running. "Haha, why are these fools running, have they never seen a drop of rain before?" But the words have scarcely left my lips when the heavens open. I'm drenched before I can move a muscle. As we flee the square in search of shelter, I'm forcibly reminded of that scene in 'The Day After Tomorrow', when the tidal wave is destroying NYC, and they only safe place is the library. No lies. We manage to get under the eaves of a building, but it's not much help. This is literally end of the world type weather, the piazza is already flooded, the gale force wind is blowing the icy-cold rain onto us, and we're forced to just give up and wait it out. My shoes are disintegrating, and my jeans and top are soaked through. 20 minutes later, we're granted a brief reprieve, and manage to make it back across the piazza before the rain comes back with a vengence, and we're forced to take cover under an archway. By the time round two eases up, it's almost 5pm, there's no time to go home and change, the ticket collection office is about to open, and I look like I've just had a bath in the Atlantic. Great.

Ticket collection goes off smoothly (minus the two small puddles left behind from the residual rainwater evacuating our hair and clothes onto the floor of the ticket office), and before we know it, we're stadium-bound, with real, live tickets for MUSE! Well, at least I hope they're the real deal. I'll only get excited once I'm in my seat, there's still too much that could go wrong.

The Internet claims that the best way to get to the Stadium is to hit the Metro to Ottoviano, and then take the bus number 32 to the stadium, but being the seasoned concert pro's that we are, we're pretty sure that it'll be quicker and easier to walk from the station. Having ascertained that we're going in the right direction, we set off for the stadium, a couple of hundred others also giving up on the bus and following suite. Twenty minutes later we're in the grounds, we've scanned through the turnstiles (massive sigh of relief), and we're in line for merch. While my thin top has dried a bit by now, my jeans are still soaked, but at least my new Muse t-shirt is warm and dry. I should also mention here that there's NO SECURITY at this stadium whatsoever. No guards, no handbag checks, no sniffer dogs, no metal detectors, nothing, nada, zip, zero. Maybe that's why it's so easy for the guys behind me to get their weed in. Ew. 

Seats located (halfway through the second opening act, thanks to ushers who have no idea how the stadium layout works), we're supposed to be in the 'limited visibility' area, but I can see just fine! I'm not at all surprised to see that the set up for the night includes giant, light-up neurons and something that looks a lot like a gigantic blow-up lightbulb. It's Muse, after all, and they're known for ridiculous live performances. The stage itself is set up much like Coldplay's, T-shaped with a B-stage at the end, where Matt will, no doubt, perform the slower songs on piano.

Some time later, a disembodied voice says a few words in Italian, and then one that I can understand: "DVD". We're being filmed!

The Kooks Live in Cape Town - #5GumExperience

It’s an interesting thing chewing gum brand 5 Gum does a few times a year: get everyone squealing over a musical act, make tickets available only through a competition, then announce the winners at the last minute and pack the lucky few thousand people into five buses headed for a secret location. Throw in an extremely successful social media campaign, and you might just have the winning formula.

Bitter though I may still be about the Two Door Cinema Curse (don't get me started on this one), I was quite impressed to have won myself tickets to see The Kooks. Did I even know who they were though? Uh... OK, quick check-up on my music library and I was pleasantly surprised to find an entire album on their's. OH, these guys, of course. Sorry, Luke and company. Much fanfare later, plus a constant rotation of The Kooks setlist on repeat all day every frikking day for about a month, I was prepared. 

Let's hit it. 

So off we pop to the 'secret meeting point' ie Maitland Secondary School - all the while acutely aware of how easily some creepy axe-man could get all of us in one go - and board the buses (*shudder*) to the 'secret location' ie Salt River Studios. It's a warehouse - totally called that ages ago.  

The trickle of hipsters becomes a flood by the time we get inside, how many people won tickets anyway?! Now, I must clarify my use of the word 'hipsters' here: they weren't jocks. No one looked like they'd stumbled in here on the way back from a surf or Tiger Tiger. These were the kind of people who were on social media often enough to know about the gig, and that could be bothered to enter. If there were any jock-types here, they'd clearly been dragged along as a plus one to a out-of-place friend. 

Anyway, ain't nobody got time for three opening acts, so we decide to chill in the food court for a bit, only to be constantly enticed by the smell of artery-clogging fried potatoes on a stick. By 10.30pm though, it was time to go and find ourselves a spot in the crowd for the main act. I am so unaccustomed to being anyway but holding onto a barrier for dear life, and being so far back was definitely a change. 

In all honesty, I was surprised at the amount of enthusiasm for a band such as The Kooks. Brits who had never toured SA before managed to pack out a venue as large as this, whilst still leaving those unlucky enough not to have won tickets feeling upset. Perhaps music is not doomed after all.

And they sure proved they were worth all the hype! Opening with the ridiculously catchy “Ooh La”, they sped through a catalogue of their hits, from first single “Eddie’s Gun” to the extremely popular “She Moves In Her Own Way”, they got the already excitable crowd jumping and bopping and singing happily along to every word. For a band without much significant so called commercial success, they sure do have fans. Although crowd interaction was minimal – hey, they didn’t fly all the way over here for a chat – when curly-haired frontman Luke Pritchard did engage with his adoring audience, no one cared that his accent was so strong that the only word we managed to understand was “OK.”

In a performance that was so pitch-perfect that it could have been a CD, The Kooks outdid any expectations that I had. Highlights of their set were most definitely the acoustic version of the sweet ‘Seaside’, the audience going crazy during ‘She Moves In Her Own Way’ and the massive singalong during encore song ‘Shine On’.

Ending off with The Kooks classic ‘Naïve’, Pritchard thanked the crowd enthusiastically for coming out to support them. The South African fans had clearly made an impact.

After such a fantastic event, the only thing on anyone’s mind was getting back to the parking lot with haste, but a disaster surfaced in the form of the buses back. Absolutely no queuing system was enforced, leaving some of us to wait for over an hour for a bus, whilst others took only minutes. and small riots nearly broke out with people fighting so hard to get on to the buses, that things got very dangerous. I would not have been surprised if someone had been run over by a bus, or managed to topple one of the buses over. I don’t appreciate being made to feel like I'm a contestant in The Hunger Games whilst waiting for a bus.

Transport issues aside, it was a well organized event, and a brilliant band. I look forward to the next #5GumExperience.

My Two Favourite Bands At Once? No Way!

My routine after the live show in the morning is pretty average: Take my laptop down to my desk from the control room, go to the kitchen, make some tea, try to scavenge a rusk or whatever they made on the show, take the tea and assorted junk food items back to my desk, check my phone in case my house has exploded or something, and then continue my work for the day. So yesterday, I was casually sipping my tea and checking my phone when I noticed I had an email on my non-work email account, oh, it's one of those latest concert tickets on sale things from Gigs and Tours, worth a read, I casually scanned the email in case it revealed any amazing new concerts for June when I'll be in London.
Petula Clark - no thanks, I'm not my granny; Lisa Stansfied - who even is that?; Sound City Players - OOHH DAVE GROHL; bunch of randoms; more randoms; The Gaslight Anthem - aw, pity I won't be there for their tour in March ... wait, hold up. I had noticed something very interesting indeed: "The Gaslight Anthem are confirmed to support The Killers at the show at Wembley Stadium 22 June 2013..."

Wait, what?!

Here's a screenshot of the email.

"The Gaslight Anthem.... The Killers." My heart starts to beat faster, the blood rushes to my head, I struggle to breathe normally. I read it again, convinced I've read it wrong. No, still says the same thing. I thrust my phone towards the girl next to me and ask her to read it aloud to me. Oh, it's true. I'm seeing stars and the world is about to come to a sparkling end. No, regain some control for goodness sake, you've seen them live before! I cover my face with my shaking hands and squeal a few times.

But as it's 8.30am my time, it's only 6.30am in the UK, so I am clearly the only one fangirling over this little announcement. In fact, no one else even seems to know about it yet. Yes, I am one of the first people to tweet about this revelation - in caps lock no less. Anyway, once England wakes up, I realise there are two schools of thought: the Victims who are like "Ah yeah, Gaslight Anthem" and the Victims who are like "Who the eff are these Gaslight people?" The former seem to outweigh the latter though, so I'm not the only one who is barely resisting the urge to curl up under my desk and cry in pure happiness.

Seriously, this is the best news I have heard in a long time. Never did I ever imagine that The Gaslight Anthem would open for The Killers. It's just too good to be true, my two favourite bands playing together! Bring on the 22nd of June!

Post-Concert Depression: It's Totally A Thing

In early 2011, I purchased three sets of concerts tickets: The Script, Kings of Leon and Coldplay. The latter two were both right at the end of the year, so as much as I was looking forward to them, it seemed like the time would never really come. By then time I'd see these two concerts, I'd be mere days away from the end of my university career and quite frankly I couldn't see anything beyond that at all. So, The Script came and went, and everything was still alright because I had two more concerts to look forward to! And so in the lead-up to Coldplay I experienced that strange emotion where you feel so overwhelmed you think you'll start crying everytime someone mentions the band's name. Wait, is it just me who feels like that?! Awkward. Anyway, after Coldplay I was too elated to be depressed, but three weeks later, once KOL was over, it was a different story. Yeah, I was feeling defeated after four fruitless years of studying, but PCD was part of it too. On the way back the next day, I felt panicked for hours for absolutely no reason at all. I just could not work it out! Why was I feeling this way? Was it because I had looked forward to this event for so long and suddenly it was over, leaving me with nothing to look forward to? Was it because I wished I had enjoyed the concert more while I was there?

How do you feel the day after a really good concert? No, I don't mean the day after a quick little gig in the local botanical gardens, or that cool club in town, I mean a real concert. Picture this: you've bought tickets to see your favourite band live for the first time, and for months and months everything leads up to that moment. Hysterical excitement, crazy screams, hyperventilation and then ... it's all over. And now what? Now it's time to come back down to earth and go back to real life. Also, what if you never get to see your favourite band again? What if the lead singer ODs, or the bassist hits the drummer over the head, leading to the fall out of the century? When it comes to bands, you can never quite be sure that "Oh well, I'll catch them again on their next tour, toodles."

People deal with the aftermath of concerts in many different ways. If you're a cool kid (...then get the hell off my blog, firstly), you'll probably post a couple of photos of you and your mates, holding a few beers and grinning like idiots. Then you'll tell everyone at the office that you had "a pretty kiff night, hey bru", and go back to your daily life.

But if you're not a Cool Kid (ie, you're a band kid), you'll most likely be left in floods of tears. You'll feel a horrible panicky feeling deep in the pit of your stomach, as though you're dreading something. And you will be dreading something: a life without the concert you'd so looked forward to. Perhaps you'll become even more obsessed with the band you just saw, tearing up at photos of wee Jared Followill, or setting an image of Dave Grohl's face as the background on every device you possess (of course, I have never done the latter. Ahem).

My first experience with real Post-Concert Depression (PCD) was something like that. When I saw The Killers live in 2009, it was also my first trip to Cape Town, about everything about that week was just plain wonderful. Upon my return home, I became positively obsessed with the band; listening to nothing but them, Twitter-creeping, finding out absolutely everything I could, and constantly thinking back to the concert. It was as though I had to keep reminding myself that I had actually been there, and that I could remember it. Maybe not quite PCD, but definitely some kind of strange PCR (Post-Concert Reaction).

Alternatively, like other forms of depression, you may feel the need to sit alone in your room and cry for a few days. And anyone who dares to say "Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened" will get quite well acquainted with your fist. After my return from England, I was tired, my body had launched a protest against lack of food, lack of sleep and too much travel, but most of all, I was sad. I'd just seen a ridiculous amount of bands live, and now it was all over. Cue pulling my blankets over my head and hating my life for a full 12 hours before I had to be at work the next day. My life continued to be hated for several days after this.

Another manifestation of PCD is a feeling of dissatisfaction with your every day life. I mean seriously now, what could be better than going to a concert every night? Nothing. Nothing at all. But we've all got to face the facts; there are only a select few amongst us who get to do that for a living, and you're probably not one of them. "I'll just quit this piece of you-know-what job and become a groupie" is a thought that's crossed many a mind a day or two after a concert, but hold your horses for a just a little while so that PCD can wear off before you hand in that letter of resignation.

Perhaps the most bizarre way in which PCD rears its ugly head is in a full avoidance of any reminder of the band at all. Everytime you hear a song by the band you saw live, it may feel like you're being stabbed in the heart with a tiny needle. Ouch. Better to avoid The Shins altogether lest a flood of memories should knock you so hard you become a blubbering mess when "Bait & Switch" comes on your iPod in the car.

Yes, PCD is totally a thing. In fact, I'd been wondering why I was in such an awful mood today, when suddenly I realised that I am experiencing RHCP PCD. No, I don't hate my life, or my job, or my car... I simply hate the fact that I'm not sure when I'll get to hear 'Dani California' live again. Now where's my box of tissues gone...

Update (30/07/2013):

My own PCD is back in full swing, and this time it's worse than ever. It's been two full weeks since T in the Park, but it still plays on my every thought. I realise that I've never actually offered any solutions for curing PCD, so here are my top three tips:

1) Identification: As long as you know what you're suffering from, you've taken the first step to overcoming PCD. Every time you feel a little stab of pain, remember what it is, and remember the great time you had at the concert.

2) Desensitize yourself: It doesn't help to stop listening to the band because it reminds you too much of the concert for which you so long. Just suck it up, play your favourite song at full volume and pretend you're back at the show. Similarly, look at your photos often.

3) Plan another gig: As long a you have a concert on the horizon, you're sure to feel much better about life. I myself have Yellowcard and Billy Talent coming up within the next few weeks - they're not The Killers or Bruce or The Gaslight Anthem, but they're good enough.

London 2012 Part VI: Reading Festival Part I

We had exactly one day to rest before Reading happened. I was bracing myself for the worst, but I didn’t honestly believe that there were no showers. I just thought everyone was pulling the leg of the poor South African who didn’t know any better. I was wrong, but we’ll get to that.

Somehow it took a lot less time to get to Reading that it had taken to get to Chelmsford, and despite all the warnings, we encountered no traffic whatsoever. Well, until we reached Reading town. So that’s where all the traffic was. We were backed up for miles and miles and miles but at least this afforded us the opportunity to creep the rest of the festival goers – people-watching is super entertaining. By now it was lunchtime and we were absolutely starving so we stopped off at the mall to track down a McDonald’s. Oh, but there was no McDonald’s. And no Starbucks. Burger King would have to do, but I swear their burgers are barely an appetizer. Ugh.

The fortuitous thing is that we’re a few meters walk from the Hexagon, where we have to collect our tickets. And by some miracle they let me collect Lauren’s ticket so we’re spared another trip through the traffic. By now Lauren’s coach has arrived, but after the Hexagon, we’re stuck in ridiculous traffic to get to the drop off point. But eventually we get there and after getting lost a few times, we follow some people towards what seems to be a parking lot. Yay! Memorizing the location of the car would probably be a good idea, seeing it’s a hire car and we don’t even really know what it looks like. It’s in row 28. Or 8. (I’m writing this two months later, and the smaller details have abandoned me.)

There’s a guy with an accent in front of us in the line to be searched be security, and the security guard asks if he’s from South Africa. Se-ouff Efrikah. No, he’s Australian, but we pack up laughing and the guard raises an eyebrow. “We’re from South Africa.” He wonders what we’re doing, leaving sunny SA for the UK, and is absolutely shocked when we say we came over for Reading. “Just for this?!” Yep. We know we’re nuts.

The camping area is, well, rather large to say the least. White camping is the furthest – and apparently the quietest -  but it looks like a hell of a walk from the arena, and we’re planning to be absolutely dead tired after seeing the likes of Dave Grohl perform. We’ll be in no state to walk this far. It also seems that a lot of the camping space is full already, even though it’s only Thursday evening  - music gets underway tomorrow afternoon. We settle for the second-furthest campsite – Brown – and set up along a fence next to the ‘supermarket’ so that we know we’ll find our way back at night. Our neighbours don’t seem to like us much though. They’re all about 15, but they swear like sailors, and drink like fish. They’re also not too happy that we’ve set up camp in what they call their ‘back yard’. Tough luck, kids.

We mission back to white camping to find food  (chips with cheese on top, not as great as it sounds), and then have another adventure in the form of setting up Kirsten’s tent in the dark. Thank goodness for the torch, which think I managed to break. Whoops.  Our attempt to go to sleep early is thwarted by our dear neighbours, who decide 2am is a great time to start a singalong. I can deal with them singing Oasis, but when they launch into renditions of Pitbull’s worst songs, I growl and my head hits the roof of my tent as I sit up to stick my head outside and give them a piece of my mind. Luckily I manage to restrain myself. I don’t really want to be beaten up by a group of 12-year-olds before I’ve even seen Brian Fallon’s face. Also, I’d never camped before in my life (besides on my friend’s front veranda when I was 12, and that time on school camp when I was 13), and by the time the sun began to rise, my body was aching like that of an 80-year old. Moving was very difficult indeed.

It’s Friday, and we’ve realized that the showers are communal. Ew. On the upside, at least it’s not too hot this weekend, so we’re not sweating.  I can do this whole not showering for four days thing… what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger and all that.

Reading’s giving us free breakfast baps every morning (a bap is basically a roll with something on it), and of course I choose bacon over egg or sausage. Bad idea. I’ve never tasted something so salty in my entire life. Plus it’s tiny. At least walking the festival grounds and standing in the food queue gave us chance to keep the rest of the festival goers. It really bugs me that half the population was decked out in Beatles shirts, even though I’m sure 90% of them had no idea who John Lennon even was. No don’t get me wrong, I’m sure there are some youngsters who have great taste in music, and know all the words to ‘Hey Jude’, but these were not amongst them. Trust me.

So we creep around stalls (much creeping was done this weekend) and then at 11am we creep into the arena (“No cans, no open bo’oles”) and as soon as I’m inside, someone hands me a flyer advertising touring bands and the first thing I see is The Gaslight Anthem. I wish they were playing today, but alas they’re only around on Sunday. Oh well, guess I’ll have to see PARAMORE tonight! But even before that we have Angels and Airwaves to look forward to, so after a thorough creep of the arena – including a preliminary judgment of just how fast we’ll have to run to get from the main stage to the NME stage between Paramore and Foster The People – we head off to the main stage to wait for A&A. Getting a good spot is almost too easy. They’re really good, but I failed on learning all of the songs, and every few minutes I turn to Lauren in abject confusion and ask “Is this the song I know?” Nope. ‘The Song I Know’ is ‘Secret Crowds’ and it’s not on the setlist. Aww.

We disappear from the crowd during Crystal Castles’ set, and get back in for You Me At Six. But we have the foresight to recognize that the crowd will probably get a little bit crazy for them, so we stay out of the mosh pit area. And we’re not wrong, the band even encourage crowd surfing and general craziness. Then the crowd starts something which seems to be called the Circle Of Death – basically people running in a circle, kicking up as much dust as possible, and causing chaos. It’s pretty fun to watch from the back. By now we’ve got a pretty decent position against the middle barrier, so we decide to wait here for Paramore. Bombay Bicycle Club are on first, and although I’ve enjoyed their music, they positively freak me out. It’s two months later and I’m getting chills just thinking about it. Their frontman never wipes his face of a seriously eerie smile that’s part innocent and child-like, and part murderous. It’s like he knows something that we don’t. Or maybe he’s just high. I breathe a sigh of relief when they leave the stage and Paramore’s backdrop appears. Another thing that appears is Ryan, a fellow Vicitm. He’s looking for Sinead, and on the phone to Jess. Oh how I love bumping into Victims all over the country!

The sun has set by the time we hear music and the screens light up and Hayley Williams – tiny, fiery-haired and bouncing – appears on stage. But there’s something very wrong… if it weren’t for the fact that I’d listened to ‘Brick By Boring Brick’ at least 5 million times, I wouldn’t have even recognized it.  Hayley’s ‘ba da ba ba da ba ba da’s were far too soft and almost entirely eclipsed by the instruments. Somehow they got their act together by the second song, ‘Renegade’, and I was completely happy again by ‘For A Pessimist…’. But really, what was up with not playing ‘CrushCrushCrush’?! But I dealt with it. It almost didn’t feel real when they played ‘Decode’, because… because it was ‘Decode’! This was the song that made me like Paramore in the first place! Yes, I was a little slow on the uptake, yes it was the Twilight song, but really, so what? My photos of the set are horrendous because I was jumping up and down so much, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. ‘The Only Exception’ was particularly beautiful, with the entire crowd singing along. ‘Misery Business’ ended the set, and we all lost our minds for a bit. I’m pretty sure this is when my brand new camera acquired that little paint chip on the side. Whoops. Festival scars FTW.

So Paramore get off the stage and we – breathlessly – dash to the NME tent for Foster The People. Once again, wisely keeping to the back of the tent in case the crowd goes nuts. There’s a guy who looks just like Bono standing off to my right, the first of several celeb lookalikes spotted during the weekend. Foster The People, though. I love them, I love their poppy vibe that disguises the fact that their lyrics are downright creepy. I love their uniqueness, and quirkiness, and I think they’re just great. What I’m not expecting is a performance to top everything I’ve seen during the day. ‘Pumped Up Kicks’ is a freaking stadium rock tune, nevermind some poppy radio hit about deranged teenagers shooting people. I positively bounce back to the tent, convinced that this will be the highlight of the entire weekend. This is clearly just because a certain Mr Grohl hasn’t shown his face yet. Oh, but bouncing is a really, really bad idea. My back feels broken, my feet are overrun with blisters bigger than my actual toes, and I can’t actually bend my knees. And so day one draws to a close with the shouts of my pre-teen neighbours acting as a lullaby.

Hard ground or no hard ground, I pass out and actually manage a few hours sleep. Not that I wake up with any less aches and pains, but at least I’m slightly less exhausted, and now that I’m into the swing of things, I won’t be as tired during the day. Oh, have I mentioned the bathroom situation yet? No? Ha. Bathrooms are for the weak, and the spoiled. Here we have rows of longdrops, and I have to hold my breathe whenever I walk past to avoid losing my supper. Ew. We take a walk to find some tea before hitting the breakfast bap line again, and man does tea taste good! Even though it’s cold by the time I get back to my tent, cold tea is better than no tea at all.

So the kids in Beatles shirts are out in full force again, and whilst observing them in the breakfast line, I’m hit by a missile around my waist. Except, it’s not really a missile, it’s Alice hugging me. Next Sinead’s hugging me too, and we’re all jumping up and down because once again, out of a crowd of 100 000 this time, we’ve managed to bump into each other. With Alice and Sinead is Emma, and we’re all chatting happily about the day’s lineup because The Vaccines are on today! They’re going to be amazing and Foster The People last night and Foo Fighters tomorrow and Kasabian today and did you hear the Green Day rumour and guys we saw The Killers and we rolled on the floor when we met Brandon Flowers and and and and this is definitely the most fun anyone’s had in the line for breakfast baps. Speaking of those baps, I tried the egg one and vowed to go back to the salty bacon the next day. Ew.

Uh, but hold on just one second, what’s this Green Day Rumour all about? During the week, there had been some speculation on Twitter that Green day would be performing a surprise set at Reading on Saturday. Buuut, there’s also weekly speculation on Twitter that Justin Bieber has died, and that there are lions roaming around Essex (I’ll get to that, it’s a great story), so I took it with a pinch of salt. Up until the Tuesday night, when dear old Zane Lowe form BBC Radio 1 (is it weird that I know DJs from other countries?) interviewed none other than Green Day themselves, and a giggling Billie Joe had a lot to say. “So,” said Zane, “there’s a rumour that your American Idiot musical might be turned into a movie…” Billie Joe cracked up and replied “There’s a rumour that American Idiot might be played at Reading!” They ended off the interview with a comment like “If you missed the Reading this, use your brain”, and this combined with Billie Joe’s ‘Hey England, what rhymes with SHREDDING?’ comment and a photo of a leaked tour t-shirt saying ‘Reading – England’, and I started to believe it.

But I didn’t really believe it! I mean, Green Day were always on my list of 20 bands I needed to see, and funnily enough we’d even looked up tickets to a festival they were playing in Paris, but we never would have made it there from Reading in time. If Green Day had announced a South African tour, I probably would have spent a good few minutes rolling on the floor crying before I composed myself enough to buy a ticket.

Anyway it’s just before 11am, and the rumour mill says Green Day are on at 12pm in the NME stage. Psssh, as if. Anyway, we head off to the arena just in case. There’s not way Green Day will actually play…

But I swear I can hear them playing even before I’m in the arena… someone’s obviously playing a CD – one stall has been playing The Killers everytime I’ve walked past. But. But. THAT’S BILLIE JOE’S FACE ON THE BIG SCREEN OUTSIDE THE NME TENT! He’s screaming, and throwing his hands in the air, and now there’s no time for rolling on the floor crying, but I’m pretty sure we won’t get into the tent, we’ll watch on the screens outside, but who cares?! We get to hear Green Day!  Oh, how wrong I am. Before I know what’s happening, I’m right at the front of the tent, clutching a barrier for dear life, as Billie Joe and his buddies go absolutely mad five meters from my face. I can’t. I can’t. This is not happening. But it is. And although they don’t play many of my favourite songs, ‘American Idiot’ now eclipses ‘Pumped Up Kicks’ as the highlight of my weekend. At one point Billie Joe starts shooting toilet paper into the audience. Ya know, as one does. I am utterly in awe of these three men, and heartbroken when they’re forced to leave the stage after an hour. But I still can’t believe it happened. I saw Green Day live, with no warning. It kind of just happened, and sometimes that’s the best way.