I’m with the band

Turning into a Stereophonics superfan

I’m in the Lake District this weekend, so today’s Substack piece is one I prepared earlier. I wrote it back in February 2020 and it’s included in my book Midlife Without a Map.

I hope you enjoy reading it. If you do, please would you hit the heart button? The more likes I get, the more new readers I can reach. Thanks so much.

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Photo by Chad Kirchoff on Unsplash

Tonight is the night. The Stereophonics are coming to Sheffield, and I have tickets. Two tickets, actually — one for me and one for the husband.

I wake even earlier than usual, so tiptoe downstairs to make a brew and write, but I can’t concentrate. Because… the Stereophonics!

I’ve not been able to think about anything else all week. Almost overnight, I’ve turned into a Stereophonics superfan. I’ve been playing their songs, singing along and dancing around the kitchen, counting down the number of sleeps until the big day.

And now, there are no more sleeps. It’s happening tonight.

I take a sip of my tea, humming the tune to ‘The Bartender and the Thief’. I nod my head and shimmy my shoulders and I’m just about to break out into a full song and dance when Chris comes into the kitchen, the dogs at his heels.

‘Morning,’ he says, sounding sleepy.

‘Do you think they’ll play ‘Song for the Summer’?’ I ask.

He rubs his eyes and yawns. ‘Probably not.’

‘I hope they do.’

‘Song for the Summer’ is the song we had as the first dance at our wedding, followed by Queen’s ‘We are the Champions’ (Chris stepped away from the dance floor for that one and left me and the rest of the Champion family to it).

Deciding on a first dance song had been challenging. We couldn’t agree on anything. When I suggested Glenn Medeiros — ‘Nothing’s Gonna Change My Love for You’, Chris’s reaction (mouth dropping to the floor in pure terror) made me consider calling the wedding off. We just weren’t compatible; it was better we accept it and move on.

But then we heard ‘Song for the Summer’ and finally agreed. We both liked it. The line about being down in the gutter appealed — we felt we could relate.

‘It’s not one of their best known,’ Chris says.

‘I know, but it’s special to us. I hope they play it.’

‘When’s the concert?’ he asks.

‘Tonight!’

‘I meant, what time?’

‘7.30. We need to leave at half five to give us enough time to park and get the tram to the arena. I want to miss the queues.’ I’m never one for being organised, but today, I have a plan, knowing where I need to be and when.

Chris nods. ‘I should be out of work on time.’

‘Should! If you’re not, I’ll go without you. I’m not missing a night with the Stereophonics just because you can’t pull yourself away from your spreadsheets.’

‘I’ll get out early,’ he laughs, grabbing his car keys and heading out the door.

I don’t have to worry about work today. I’ve taken the day off. With a horse, two Shetland ponies, two dogs and a rabbit to look after, going anywhere or doing anything requires planning of military precision. I wouldn’t concentrate in the office, anyway. The chat this week has been nothing but the Stereophonics.

My colleague (also a fan) and I have been trying to imagine what life would be like as a rich and famous rock star, or what it would be like to be married to one. We picture a life of non-stop parties, music and fun.

‘It’d probably be a nightmare,’ she’d said. ‘I wouldn’t want it, would you?’

‘Definitely not. I’d much rather be married to an accountant and working here with you.’

She’d nodded. And, with our rock star dreams in ruins, we’d had another cup of tea and returned to work. Or tried to — the Stereophonics were never far from my mind.

When I turned forty last year, I promised myself a life of fun. After a winter of work, more work, bad weather, extreme weather and mucking out in all weathers, the fun hasn’t quite come to fruition. Tonight, I’m determined to have so much fun the endorphins will fly around my body for a good few months.

By the time Chris gets home, I’ve fed, mucked out, and walked the menagerie. And I’m showered, hair washed and dried, and makeup applied.

‘You’re never ready on time,’ he says. ‘This must be important.’

‘It is. We have to leave. I don’t want to get stuck in traffic.’

‘I just need a quick shower,’ Chris says.

‘Don’t be long. We need to get there early.’

For once, it’s not Chris, but me standing by the door, checking my watch and sighing. I like this role reversal very much, although I don’t have Chris’s patience.

‘Are you ready yet?’ I shout upstairs. ‘How long are you going to be?’

‘Coming,’ he says. ‘I’ll be five minutes.’

Twenty minutes later, Chris races downstairs, his damp hair sticking up in places. ‘I’m here,’ he says.

And then we’re in the car and heading down the M1 to Meadowhall Park and Ride. It’s all very rock ‘n’ roll.

‘Why haven’t we seen them before?’ I ask. Despite loving the Stereophonics for over twenty years, I have never seen them live. Our friends are always going to gigs — gigging here, and there, and everywhere. But Chris and I never have.

‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘Too many animals to look after?’

‘You can never have too many animals.’

‘I’ll remind you of that when the dog’s been sick on the carpet again.’

I ignore him and continue with the gigging — or rather lack of gigging — chat.

‘This is the first concert we’ve been to together, and that’s fourteen years.’ I do a quick calculation to make sure I’ve got the number of years right. We’ve done the time, so I’d hate to miss a year.

‘It can’t be,’ Chris says, not taking his eyes off the road.

‘It is.’

He thinks for a minute. ‘We went to that Bajan nights event in Barbados. The one where you got drunk and joined the dancers doing the Conga to Rihanna’s ‘Umbrella’.’

‘It was a good night, that. But it wasn’t a concert…’

‘What about that concert in Edinburgh,’ Chris says. ‘The one with Liam Gallagher.’

I laugh. We’d been for a meal and were walking down Princes Street back to the hotel when someone who sounded a bit like Liam Gallagher blasted out a shaky, off-key version of ‘Wonderwall’ from inside Princes Street Gardens.

‘Is that really Liam Gallagher?’ I asked. If it was, this was a great opportunity to squeeze into the park, join the concert and get a glimpse.

Chris shook his head. ‘It’s someone doing a poor imitation of Liam Gallagher.’

We listened some more. ‘It sounds like him,’ I’d said, keen not to miss out.

‘No, it can’t be.’ Chris was adamant.

We’d returned to the hotel only to find out the next day that it was in fact Liam Gallagher.

‘We were almost there,’ Chris says, putting his indicator on to signal off the motorway, ‘but didn’t quite make it.’

‘Story of my life!’ I check the clock to make sure we’ll not be too late. I can cope with missing the last song in a Liam Gallagher performance that I’d not paid for, but when I’ve forked out a hundred quid on the Stereophonics, I want to hear every note. ‘We’re cutting it fine.’

‘It’s not my fault,’ Chris says, ‘it’s the traffic.’

I stare out of the window at the bumper-to-bumper cars and the sign flashing above the lane: ‘Congestion. Event at Sheffield Arena.’

Event or no event, it always takes forever to get to Sheffield. Sometimes I think it would be easier to fly to the moon than navigate the route to Sheffield in rush hour.

‘Didn’t Darren and Katrina see the Stereophonics?’ Chris asks, changing into second gear.

‘Yes, Katrina got wee thrown on her.’

‘Did she?’

‘Apparently people… men, wee into bottles so they don’t lose their position in the crowd. Someone threw theirs and it landed on her head and trickled down her neck.’

‘Lovely,’ Chris says. ‘I hope that doesn’t happen to us.’

‘They were in the mosh pit,’ I say. ‘We’ve got chairs; it’ll be more civilised.’

When I’d bought the tickets, I’d made sure of a chair. There was no way I was risking a urine-soaking, and I didn’t think I’d manage a full night without a sit down, not with my dodgy runner’s knees.

‘We’re here,’ Chris says, pulling into the park and ride. We abandon the car and dash for the tram, squeezing into a carriage packed with people. At Sheffield Arena, the queues are already long, snaking around the stadium, making it almost impossible to find the end. But we do, eventually, and take our place at the back of it.

It’s cold and dark and a few raindrops are falling. We huddle together, trying to keep warm.

Chris looks around. ‘You realise that everyone in this queue is of a certain age?’

I glance discreetly at the faces around me — none of them, ours included, are flush with youth.

‘They’re our age,’ I say, feeling that familiar pang of dread when I’m confronted with the harsh reality of my advancing years. ‘I used to be young. Now I’m old.’

‘Not old. Middle-aged.’ Chris is keen to clarify.

As befitting people of our age, we wait patiently in the queue, which doesn’t seem to get any shorter.

‘This is why we don’t do the gigging thing,’ Chris says.

‘Because you’re miserable?’

‘No, because of the queuing. It ruins a good night. We could be warm in a restaurant somewhere.’

‘I am warm.’ I pull my coat tighter to stop the shuddering.

We wait and wait. A woman comes to check our bags, then another woman frisks us, and then we’re allowed to step inside. We join another queue. This time, for a cup of tea for us both, a chicken baguette for me and a hot dog for Chris. At least, that’s what we think they are. They have a plastic look about them and taste remarkably similar.

‘This is lovely,’ I say as we take our seats.

The support band comes on. Despite not knowing them or their songs, I tap my feet and nod my head, sipping my tea and eating my sandwich. No one else on our block is paying them any attention, just making several hundred trips to the bar and back.

‘Do you think anyone will dance?’ I ask. The people around us look very reserved, not really dancing types.

‘There’s bound to be one crazy mad person,’ Chris says.

The lights go off, the man behind me wolf whistles, the entire stage lights up and the Stereophonics blast into ‘C’est La Vie’.

I jump to my feet, throwing my coat on the chair. I wave my arms wildly about and dance. It’s only when the song’s finished and the next one starts — ‘I Wanna Get Lost With You’ — that I realise no one else on our block has moved. They are still sitting down. I am the only one standing. I am the crazy mad person.

Illustration credit - Glenda Strong

But I don’t care. Because tonight I have a night off my life, and I am going to enjoy every moment. I turn back to the stage and fix my eyes on Kelly Jones, who is wearing a black jacket flecked with red, the same colours I’m in. I turn to Chris and point to my outfit.

‘I’m with the band,’ I say.

‘What?’ He moves closer.

‘My clothes,’ I shout. ‘I’m with the band.’

‘Can’t hear.’

‘Never mind.’ My fan girl moment is lost on my husband.

The crazy dancing continues. And as the songs go on, more people join me. Even Chris gets to his feet and does a bit of clapping and swaying.

‘Whoo-hoo.’ I move and shake and sing. It’s like it’s 2001 again and I’m twenty-one, partying to the sound of the Stereophonics. Not much has changed since then, and yet everything has.

I don’t want it to end. But after twenty-four tracks, it does. Kelly Jones does that thing where he goes offstage and comes back, and there’s an enormous cheer, so he does it again, and there’s another cheer, and then again. And I can’t help but think I’m cheering the loudest.

When the lights come on, I stand and stare at the stage. ‘They didn’t play ‘Song for the Summer’.

‘Don’t worry about that,’ Chris says. ‘Worry that it’s going to take us a week to get out of here if we don’t get a move on.’

Around us, people are stampeding for the exit. Chris takes my hand, and we fall into line.

For the next hour, we stand huddled together with hundreds of other people waiting for a tram. The mood has changed, and some of them are getting fidgety. When the two men in front of us start pushing, shoving and throwing punches at each other, the teacher within me wants to jump in and tell them to stop falling out.

Chris takes my arm. ‘Don’t,’ he says. ‘I want to make it home in one piece.’

We move out of the way and wait patiently, breathing in the chilly February air, and trying to ignore the powerful stench of alcohol and sweat. Eventually, we realise that we’re in the wrong queue. We’re in the one heading into Sheffield. Twenty years ago, I would have been leading the charge for town, ready to dance till dawn. But now, I couldn’t think of anything worse. I’m content heading home for a brew and my bed.

When the Meadowhall tram pulls into the station, I push through the crowd and scramble aboard. There are no seats left, so I lean against the luggage rack. My feet are throbbing, my body aching, but I feel more alive than I have in a long time. My days of dancing until dawn might be behind me, but tonight I’ve seen a flicker of the person I used to be — the fun version of me when life was about music and dance and nights out.

‘It’s been a good night,’ I say.

‘Great.’ Chris smiles.

Our first concert together has gone well. The endorphins are flying. They will carry us through the next few months until spring when the brighter weather arrives. And then, the fun can really begin. ‘Song for the Summer’ plays in my mind.

As we’ve got older, time seems to have passed so quickly, in a blur of work and study and striving. It’s like we reached twenty and life went into fast-forward. The only way to slow it down is to make more memories like tonight.

As soon as we’re in the car, I turn the heater on full blast, and put the radio on low, so we can still chat. ‘When I planned my forties of fun, this is exactly what I had in mind.’

Despite the queuing and the plastic food and the pushing and shoving, I want to do it all again. I grab my phone and do a quick search. ‘They’re playing Edinburgh in July.’

I scroll down the list. ‘Most of the tickets have gone, but there’s a few still available — the resale ones at extortionate prices. If we re-mortgage the house, we should be able to afford tickets.’

‘Shall we think about it?’ Chris says, his sensible accountant side coming through.

‘No, we need to seize the moment.’ I’ve already added the tickets to my basket and I’m only two clicks away from checkout. Just as I’m about to press pay, the clock turns to midnight, and the news comes on the radio. The headlines are all about coronavirus. Cases are rising. Two more people in England have tested positive for Covid-19, taking the total number of cases to twenty. In Italy, it’s much higher.

‘It’s worrying.’ I turn to Chris. ‘Someone needs to do something before it gets out of control.’

‘They’re saying it’s only mild symptoms,’ he says. ‘But people are dying.’

When the news has finished, I return to my phone. I’m now only one click away from securing our seats, but something, a niggling feeling in the bottom of my stomach, stops me.

‘I’ll do it later.’ I rest my head back against the seat. ‘Maybe tomorrow.’

(February 2020)

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