doing something

It was a concert I’d been aware was coming up for a while but hadn’t got a ticket.  Only upon returning to the city after a day’s work in another city did I remember.  I called a friend who’d promised to keep an eye out.

He said he’d scored one through a mate at work, but just one, sorry.  I asked him to keep an eye out for people selling spares once he reached the venue and he agreed.  Meantime I made an ill-fated attempt to score a spare through Twitter and message boards, to no avail.

Being fairly tired after a long day, before remembering the gig I’d planned a sluggish but healthy evening: go for a swim, come back and have a late dinner before bed, perhaps a wee tot of Scotch to see me off before another earlyish start the next day.

My friend called.  He said there wasn’t anyone outside but a doorman said he’d sort me out if I came and asked for Jamie.  Really?! I asked.  This was a long sold out gig by Warpaint, a popular, and excellent all-girl band from LA.  Was it really legitimate or was I about to get scammed?

Having found a nearby parking space I approached the venue, its front door shut and a burly doorman standing sentinel outside, watching pavement smokers who’d just stepped out.  It felt awkward but hey, just front it out.

“Hello mate, I was told to a guy called Jamie could sort me out with a ticket?”

“Yep, that’s me.”

He really didn’t look like a Jamie to me.  Face value for a ticket was twelve fifty.

“Great, so..”

“Got a tenner?” he asked.

“Yep,” I proffered a ten pound note.  He swiftly pocketed it, glanced over his shoulder and stamped my right hand with an admission mark.

“In you go then.”

I entered, quietly chuckling to myself.  What admirable entrepreneurial spirit.

The gig itself was exceptional.  Rarely have I witnessed a display which both looked AND sounded quite so good.  Usually it’s sweaty white men with greasy long hair, or perhaps vaguely nerdy.  Here were hot, shlubby females creating a brilliant haunting, subtle noise.

But it was blighted by a persistent conversation between two guys nearby.  Their heads kept coming together to shout over the delicate music, the artists trying to hush the crowd.  It was moderately annoying to me, but I guessed more annoying to the young, meek looking couple standing directly behind them, whose view they were directly obstructing each time their heads came together.

Standing behind the pair of men, I placed my left hand on the main chatty man’s left shoulder.  This perhaps wasn’t the most subtle approach and was always likely to be greeted defensively.  All I said was, “mate,” with a questioning, tired look.

First he shrugged, ignoring me.  The next time they came together he became conscious of my disgusted glare burning into the side of his head.

“What?!” he replied, aggressively.  “Am I annoying you?!  My talking is annoying you?!  Look, you CAN just move..”

“I’m not too bad but it’s probably more annoying that couple right behind you,” I said, gesturing the couple behind him.”

Then he saw them, registered that perhaps that my complaint was legitimate, and ushered the couple in front of him and his friend, before disappearing to the back of the room.

The couple, now standing just in front of me, displayed not even the faintest hint of gratitude.  I just got you a significantly better view by nearly getting in a fight with a dickhead but, y know, no biggie..

Why bother, eh?  You do such things out of a blind sense of duty and righteousness, and sort of expect recognition, if not reciprocation, a payoff at some point – you reap what you sow, do as you would be done by – all that shit, maybe a good turn of luck.

It never seemed to work out though.  But then, perhaps I’d received that luck early through the dodgy doorman.  My helpless sense of injustice only lasted one or two tracks.

A few yards further to my left was a guy I’d initially stumbled across on Twitter while doing some competitor analysis before Christmas; during a time I was seeing an unsuitable girl.  Not that I was a possessive weirdo or anything.  He was working with her at the time.  A handful of shared interests between us, he was professionally mobile, a few years younger and considerably better looking.  I’d seen him around town too, in a few bars – pissed right next to him once, I think.  Didn’t check his asset.  But we’d never met.  God, he was a handsome bastard, I considered, glancing across the crammed floor at him with his great hair and cute girlfriend.  One of those people I simultaneously hated and wanted to be.  She was only working with him temporarily but I had every right to be cautious at the time, although I still look back and cringe at how idiotic the whole thing was.

The gig ended without an encore and we shuffled slowly out of the venue.

At midnight I was feasting on not very nice kebab, feeling grease bloom within me and an unhealthy fat mutation settle in the pit of my stomach.  It wouldn’t leave until around lunchtime the next day.  Quite a reverse on the planned easy evening, gentle swim and early night.  Great work.


2 Responses to doing something

  1. Redbookish says:

    Those sorts of random evenings are the best … sadly rarely happen for me.

  2. Pingback: there’s this guy | Boshsuckled

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