Things I Hate: People at gigs by Peatree Bojangles

I love music, don’t get me wrong. As I’m typing this, I’m currently contacting as many people as possible to get tickets to a gig of my favourite band. I want to see music live, performed live, by real life people in a building that exists. What I don’t want is to interact with or be interfered with by people. That’s the word of today guys; people. Why do I hate gigs? People. Let’s put aside the fact that so many bodies in one room is unhygienic, claustrophobic and quite frankly stupid, the thing that upsets me the most is the lack of decent human respect. Yes, I sound 80 and alone, but I’m very serious. Also, I’m 28 and own a pillow with a face on it, so there goes your senile lonely cat woman theory out the window.

I recently had the misfortune of entering Camden Underworld, a place I promised myself I would never return to after the incident with my friend, his girlfriend, that bouncer, tears, a canal and a bus. Despite this, I returned. Upon entering, I felt I had entered a 90s timewarp of goths and IT technicians with ‘Slayer’ t-shirts. There were girls dressed as Tim Burton influenced goths and men who had walked out of a Cradle of Filth music video. At first,  intrigue turned to dust as my view was blocked by overweight girls wearing too much eyeliner, stripy arm gloves and black vests. Jumpers were wrapped around waists. I was in fashion hell. I was in the 90s. As it so happened, I found my judgemental tone quite distressing as I myself dressed like that and went to gigs when I was their age. I owned a spike collar.

Putting judgement aside, I moved to the floor to watch the support band; an utter torrent of shit. Guyliner and fake tattoo sleeves adorned the stage with wet look gel and cryptic ‘Geiger-esque’ t-shirts. This was bad. And then it got worse.

Two girls whom I had noticed earlier decided to stand in front of me. Skanky Bitch, as I named her, was wearing shorts too small for her non-existent arse, FISHNET tights (omg, I know right), whore boots, and a stripy tight stupid fucking jacket. Her hay-like unconditioned hair lay limp and ugly from her probably fucking stupid head. As she stood in front of me, some horrid overweight men look over and lick their lips as they survey her outfit. I grin at the discomfort she is bound to experience from this. She fucking loved it, of course she did. Anyway, the support band comes on and her friend joins her. I realised that these two girls were the only fans of this awful band. This was displayed to me by the obscene amount of shit dancing.

Why didn’t you move? I hear you all ask. Quite obviously the thought crossed my mind, for I’m not as devoid of basic intelligent reactions as you seem to think. I am a short person: around 5’4″, maybe a bit shorter, so when I attend gigs, I spend most of it scrutinising people’s need for Head and Shoulders. When I do find a spot where heads are the perfect height, and there’s a small gap where I can view the stage, I ain’t budging for shit. Not even shit dancing.

The music I was listening to was supposed to be metal. From what I can decipher, it’s a confused emo/goth hybrid with a TopMan guitarist. Skanky Bitch showed her love for this TopMan music by seductively grinding her hips to it. Her hands were in her hair, caressing her scalp, as her vagina flapped all over the floor. It was disgusting and, more importantly, out of rhythm. Why was she doing this? Why was it happening so close to me? Where do I look? There’s no ass, so I’m not looking there. The bands awful, so forget that. I found myself on my phone. During a gig! I’d kill a person like me.

Finally the band stopped and she fucked off with her dripping wet vagina dragging on the floor. Yes, the band I want to see will come on and everything will be okay and we can all leave laughing and won’t ever talk about how I’ve ground my teeth to a pulp and am not just chewing this sandwich with bloody gums.

As if he saw how short I was, Tall Fucking Asshole With A Stupid Fucking Ponytail stood in front of me. Oh good. My stress cramps came back.

He swayed slightly and the horse mane hanging off the back of his head stroked my face. I gagged. Side stepping, I found myself in front of a middle aged couple. Oh how lovely that they can come to a gig at their age and enjoy the music. No. The guy, standing behind his woman, whispered in her ear, gave her a drink, took three steps back and stood there, making sure no one could stand in front of him. Why? Why are you doing this? I can’t see anything, but if you let me stand in front of you, maybe I could. MAYBE YOU SHOULD STOP BEING AN ARSEHOLE.

I tried to enjoy the gig, but found my teeth grinding caused my wisdom tooth to flare up. My stress cramps and wisdom tooth pain pretty much sums up my experience. This isn’t the only time it’s happened. When I went to see Marilyn Manson, I came out with a stress rash and tumour.

There should be a system – people who want to watch the band and want to see them perform should stand with a small 5ft metal barrier around them and direct eye contact with the band. Everyone else, fuck off.

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