Hullsome fun
A four hour car journey dramatically doubles in duration as
the distant doesn’t decrease. Drive,
break, drive, break, drive, break, striving to arrive. Not once do I take the wheel, I do not drive
for I was born to be driven. Ironically the car is controlled by someone named
Harri and that’s where the similarities begin and stop. On top of laborious launch north I had to deal
with lungs that refuse to believe fresh air is real air. Every service station is a chance to enhance a
meeting with the sniggering, snickering, giggling grim reaper. Life cannot end
cheaper. Cigarettes, all thirty of them
consumed in twenty-four. Seconds, minutes or hours? The power of deduction is
yours. Most consumed on the motorway where clever men never ever know the end. Until
the end. Humans’ content in contraptions hell bent on destruction. Ford Fiesta’s
with handling made to test ‘ya. Metal
death traps and one day death will rat-a-tap-tap on the door, that’s the end,
no more. When feet finally reach the
streets of Hull, it a pub we find ourselves positioned in. A public house for the irregular regulars of
which there are some. Fun consumes us as
one hour turns into three as those young enough to not remember pain continue
on for four. Uncouth youth with time on
their side idly discus their idol as those old enough to know no better drink
more until the floor seems unstable. As
closing time dooms us all, we decide to head to the arena after we slide back
to our hotels to freshen up and make ourselves cleaner.
As I drunkenly dance inside the hotel door I check a message
on my phone and my jaw nearly breaks the floor.
“Check True-To-You” conveyed the message as disbelief morphs into
dismay. There was no way that the truth
lay in front of me. I left the hotel
still reeking of sleepless regrets and dead-set alcohol sweats. As I arrive at the venue I notice bodies
bulging bigger than brutes on the floor like shoots of the bluest of roses in recumbent
poses. I write my name of the list in a
cold shake of the pen hoping that whoever reads the list out gets the gist. Number thirteen is my chosen number, and
certain people know what numbers mean. Gin and beer turns into thins of fear as
news filters through to those who make up the queue. Shock and surprise flocked to the ears, eyes,
and minds of those lost souls of the queue as the realisation of what their
life may be in lieu of Morrissey. Morose
figures fail to ascertain what the statement really pertains to. Retirement or
not? Can Art even retire? A dozen deluded delinquents demeanour drifts
downwards as realisation finally rolls into regret. Could we have done more shows? Where did all
the time go? Those who can sleep, those that just can’t, weep. More booze soothes the body but numbs the mind
until we are dumb enough to roll naked into baths of ice. Nobody laughs.
By 3am my body shivers and my liver quivers and I know it’s
time for the sweet sanctuary of a soft sheet and most welcoming mattress. I say
my goodbyes. The warmth of the hotel greets and meets me like an old friend,
enemy, then friend again. 3am turns into 11pm and I am certainly sure that the
place in the list is lost. With nothing to lose I check Grindr because who
knows what you might find there. Gloria Hole, Amanda Bang, and Dixie Normus throw
hello’s my way but offer nothing to make me stay as I stroll, hop and roll
gingerly and orangely back to the queue. The queue grew in my long luxurious lounging
absence. The kitty-cat shutty-eye sleepy
time refreshed nothing I confess. As clocks go ticky-tock more flock to the
back of the rack of the stack and the queue twists and the list closes. Where sad glamour glamorises my life when she
says a Canadian hello. Although it took me many looks to realise who stood
before mine eyes and for that I apologise.
The venue is an ice-rink and stands next to an imitation Salford Lads
Club and Toys ‘R’ Us which reminds us all of the inner child who would stand in
the aisles going wild. “Why do I have to
have Action Man, why can’t I have a Barbie Doll?” I screamed to nobody in
particular. And nobody in particular never answered.
Tiredness troubles me still. The excitement of the occasion
had made me forget that I actually have two tickets for this concert, as
feelings subvert. I leave the queue to meet the man who shall be called He as
that was his chosen gender. The road to the train station is not bendier that a
ruler as the northern air makes me cooler than the ice rink behind me. I know the place is the list is lost forever
but these are the things you do for love, or is it loathe? I collect the He and
we arrive back at the back of the queue. I care not because I calculate the
state of the situation as not being too bad. However this changes when we
notice a sign that tells us that we are not allowed to bring in bouncing balls.
Fine, if not a little weird considering.... However the bag on the back of He
spells a slight snag as security officers have faces that attack. As we turn to return to the Hotel I spot a
certain Mrs Boozey and husband happily by her side. Booze oozes from her every
pour like death escaping the tomb as you open the tomb door. We cannot stay.
The time on the wall is making a joke
of us all. By 5:30 I know that my place is lost in the second position I found
myself in. The bag of misdemeanour lays on the bedroom floor. Unfortunately
there is no time for salutations of the bulbous kind as my mind returns to the
growing numbers making up the queue.
By the time we arrive back I see the flashes of the masses who I must now
stand behind. I find myself probably number 333 in the queue as sandwich bags
are handed out for no particular reason, surely a conspiracy by the boil family
and if you do not comply you’ll be accused of treason. To my surprise once inside we find ourselves
third row but to the side. I check our view and notice that Morrissey would
have no place to hide. Directly in my view, the band hidden. It would be like
Morrissey was on stage by himself. Every
Morrissey concert starts with the anticipation of his arrival. Those not in the know cannot know that every
show starts with music, then videos, and then finally the man they paid to see
struts onto stage as only he can. The inside is no place for timid-toe Thomas who
will face here harsher realities than the outside. Children of hamburger
unhappiness and mothers of questionable intentions mention the fact
that they know no solo songs and fondly remember The Smiths. “You’re in for a
long night” I volley back to them. They register nothing.
It feels as if the videos end as soon as they start. Feet
start to pound the ground as Wayward Sisters launches the masses into blisters
of excitement. Morrissey arrives and
body’s push forward and the familiar chant starts. Suedehead begins and the
crowd bounces and pounces on any open space.
Alma Matters means more to me than most. May I say that it’s a song that
describes my life? Well I just did, so there. Speedway is a song that describes
my life, have I said that before? Well, I just said it again. Gustavo’s Spanish
sounds splendid sparking confused looks from those who don’t know. The video accompanying Ganglord shocks most
into silence as Morrissey rightly rounds on the American Taliban. The next few
songs pass by in a blur of why. All I can remember is psychos punching psychos presumably
for being too psycho. Around the time of Paris He says a blood test has made
his body ache and He could do with a rest. I hesitate because I’d hate to give
up a position for the third time until he shows a gash on his head where He
fainted on a table and was unable to move and when he awoke he believed in
every fable. “Heard of Morrissey’s world?” I question. He looks at me with eyes
that disguise nothing and ignorance is sometimes bliss. With our tired feet we
retreat to two empty seats. A decision is to be made. It’s either pay attention
to the man next to me or in front of me. There is no competition. I know it, He
knows it, the other he knows, and they know it. Eyes locked front.
The concert from here is not clear. Morrissey is smaller
than a drummers pre-courtcase wallet. Judges judge with pre-determined ideas. Mama
turns into a man who has a crisis of gender who bullfights but then rightly
dies. Oboe obviously reduces me to onion tears.
Meat is Murder is a crowd divider in a way that the crowd divides to let
those out who faint when they can’t believe their eyes. Meat is not a treat for
animal or human. But who has the time to care? Do you care? The meat in your
mouth is grit, shit, and dirt. Do you care when an animal is hurt? By the way
did you ever find that Sunday is just like every other day? And that those with
knives smile while sharpening? Perhaps ponder these points.
What She Said was the encore as Morrissey arrives on stage
in red shining like a Christmas decoration. Decorate me with merry. The song ends
as stage invasions cease. Every crease of the shirt no longer matters as
Morrissey moves to remove it from his iconic torso. The shirt is flung as the
last note is sung. As a mess of flesh shifts, shapes, but never saunters
forwards towards the shirt, no fear of being hurt. Those lucky enough to be plucky pluck the
shirt from anyone who dare has a grip as the idea of chivalry slips and drops
dead as men see the sight of red. Men
slap women and women rap children across the head. Arms fling and voices sing, some retreat
whilst others stick to the beat. A whole
shirt reduced to scrambles and people gamble on either leaving the crowd or
sticking their feet to the ground. Stone cold are the hands that hold. I leave
to retrieve a taste of the northern air.
A dodgy man stands outside doing all he can to sell rip off merchandise
to manically mental fans. The back aches
and cracks as if attached to a torturing device with a latch. Back in the hotel I smoke lungs to death
again. He states that he never knew Morrissey could be so powerful. A more truthful statement I’ve never heard. As
we move to the aftershow a brief happiness elopes me and doesn’t let go. In some ways Hull is a town time forgot. Morrissey is a man time will never forget. Morrissey, please tell me when? Please tell me
quando. I would turn into a pear and poach myself for you.
