Wednesday, July 06, 2005

Deep In The Rain Of Sparks 

I must have driven past the rather fine Reebok Stadium hundreds of times, home of Big Sam’s Bolton Wanderers, but Monday was the first time I’ve been inside it. It was great, as were Elbow and Coldplay, who me and Girlfriend had gone there to see.

After a dull morning at work – only point of interest being told for the second year in succession that I’d been awarded a 0% pay rise; if only I’d thought to put a bet on that I could have made some money – I met Girlfriend at her office and we went to a sticky brown pub for lunch.

Inside the stadium, there was much confusion of the “You’re in our seats,” “No we’re not” variety, as tickets had been issued for the Lofthouse Stand and the East Stand – two names for the same actual stand. It kept the marshals busy all evening, in a “What’s the worst job you’ve ever had?” kind of way. At least we didn’t get completely soaked, like the people down on the pitch.

Elbow - paradoxically both achingly beautiful and bearded - were wonderful and we hope to see them somewhere small soon.
Coldplay were excellent too, and clearly have the uncanny knack of being able to make a stadium show seem cosy and intimate. For a finale, they filmed us not once but twice for the video of Fix You – that’s me in the orange sackcloth smock, bodypopping on Girlfriend’s shoulders, you won’t miss me.
Then we spent an hour and three quarters waiting to leave the grid locked car park, finally crawling out at 12:45. You’d have thought they could have come out and busked to pass the time. Still, a top night.

Let the record also state that we had a really good weekend. We stopped over at lovely Leanne’s, watching Live 8 with Charlie, my Juggling Protégé and others.
It felt good to know that we were sharing a common experience with millions of people around the world: namely, wondering how the hell Velvet Revolver managed to get that gig, and shouting at the telly for them to get off NOW! because they were shit.

Interesting fact: did you know that at any moment during the twenty years since the original Live Aid, somebody somewhere in the world has been pregnant with one or more of Sting’s children?

We discussed the rich comedy minefield that is unintended charity wristband combinations and on Sunday we returned to the llama fields for auditing.

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