A sunny February morning finds me wheeling my suitcase around residential streets once again, this time in the East Wall area of Dublin, where I search for my Airbnb amongst streets lined with tiny, single storey, terraced houses. A couple of the residents appear from their doors and point me in the right direction, and I find the right house, with the key taped inside the lid of the wheelie bin as promised. (no-one would do this in Leeds).
I have the place to myself for now, so I make myself at home before taking the 10 minute walk to the arena where, at 1pm, I add my name to The List at number 27, then spend the next couple of hours hanging around chatting to other queuing fans, including the ladies from California who I had met in Glasgow, and some Japanese ladies in a cafe opposite, which is of course mainly occupied by Morrissey fans.
Ever a dampener, my back pain is already causing me some problems, and since my room is so close by, I make a quick trip back and treat myself to a luxurious half an hour lie down. The bed is too soft, however, and does little to alleviate my pain, so I grab some codeine and head back out. I’m sure I used to take much more interesting drugs before gigs.
When I get back to the arena at 4pm I find everyone has already formed a line, and my Japanese friends beckon to me, as soon as they see me, to come and take my place.
A man a few places behind me in the queue stands shivering without a coat. He arrived quite soon after me, but was told The List was stopping at 30 today. I never quite manage to ascertain why he has no coat, but he seems determined to tough it out, and he is one of the few people in my immediate vicinity that seems to want to talk. For diversion, I take a few trips up the line to see the ladies from California who also seem happy to chat.
Meanwhile, the queue is slowly building. However, venue staff are mysteriously setting up barriers at the entrance on the other side of the arena, which causes me some concern, but no-one seems to know what is going on.
At around 5.30pm a member of said staff comes and tells us we need to move, not to the other side of the building, as I expected, but over to another wall just in front of us. “But just the people who were here first,” he shouts, “Don’t all rush at once.”
We all rush at once, and there is a complete reshuffle, but the people on The List are assertive and succeed in getting those without numbers to move back, while we are checked off back into our numbered order. We then spend an anxious half hour watching as security set up more barriers, and speculate on where we will be moved to next, fearing a another move this close to doors will not end well.
Things look briefly promising when the line starts moving, in an orderly manner, around to the other side of the building, to where a barrier system awaits. However, we are much disconcerted to find about 30 newly arrived people have already formed a new line here in the interim, and we halt behind them for a few minutes, before moving up until we are alongside them, wedged between barriers.
Tension is now rising to new heights. There is no possibility of asking the newcomers to move back at this stage, and security are unconcerned at what we see as a major calamity. “Where did you guys come from? Was there another line?” asks a lady with an Irish accent. She is generous in allowing me, and a few others from The List, to move in front of her, but not everyone is feeling so willing, and attempts to move further forward result in some shouting and pushing. I fear a full on fight is going to break out, and seriously wonder if I can cope with this level of stress five more times over the next eleven days.
Our next test is to move out from between the barriers and round another corner to a set of doors. We are ordered to the far most door, where we then watch more queues form at the several doors to our right, and realise, to our alarm, that venue staff are now preparing to open all the doors at once; a queuing Morrissey fan’s nightmare.
A suspenseful minute passes whilst we listen to an exchange between security and the people at the front of our line, who ask desperately for just our door to be opened first, claiming an arrangement with a member of Morrissey’s crew, and I advise my new Irish friend to get ready to run forward to another door. However, it seems security relent, and there now ensues a frenzied thrusting of tickets at a single young man with a scanner, as we enter the venue in haphazard form. I manage second row centre stage once more, where I feel ready to crumble into the ground with the stress undergone in obtaining such a spot.
The people on the barrier in front of me are clearly experiencing similar feelings, and I ask them, since I suspect they have more experience of this game than me, to rate how stressful that entry was, on a scale of one to ten. “Eleven!” they reply.
At length, I recover myself enough to remove my hat and look around me, and I spot, a few rows behind me, the shivering man without a coat. “How did you end up back there?” I call to him. “I have no idea.” he returns. That’s the last I see of him.
Next to me is the Irish lady who seems conscious that she must have got lucky to land herself such a prime spot at the front. It is her first Morrissey show, and she has driven here from the west of Ireland. We chat together a good deal, and also with a guy on the barrier from Mexico, a regular at Morrissey shows, who takes a friendly interest in where my Irish friend is from.
Also in front of us is a lady from LA who tells us she has been to every Morrissey show since 2011. “What do you do for work?” I ask her, wondering how she can manage to take so much time off. “I work online.” she replies simply. How very old-fashioned of me to assume that having a job requires you to be in one place all the time.
I also spot an Italian friend waving at me from several rows back, who I was particularly hoping to meet here in Dublin. We only know each other from Facebook, and I’m impressed that he is able to spot me from so far away. I wave back at him and we know our meeting will have to wait until the end of the show.
Immediately behind me is a young teenage girl with her boyfriend, who is clearly very excited. “I can’t believe Morrissey’s going to be right there”, she repeats several times, as we stare at the microphone stand just a couple of metres in front of us.
When Morrissey does appear and the show begins, I sneak a look round at her. Her hands are up against her face, and she seems transfixed in awe. The scene reminds me of Beatles mania footage, and I reflect on how Morrissey continues to attract a fresh, new audience, and on the diversity of ages and nationalities in the crowd.
During the show I become aware of some pushing and disturbance behind me, and shortly a man’s voice speaks into my ear. “I just want to give my passport to Morrissey. I promise to go back.” I can’t even begin to conjecture why he would want to give his passport to Morrissey, but in any case, I have no intention of allowing him to stand on my toes for any length of time, so I ignore him and turn my attention back to the stage. His arm rests on my shoulder for a few minutes, as he reaches out, passport in hand, until the other people behind me persuade him to give up and retreat back from whence he came.
At the end of the show I easily locate my Italian friend, and ignoring a sudden rush of shyness, odd since I have spent all day talking to strangers, I approach him and we shake hands. He is exactly as I expected he would be, and does not disappoint, as so often I find people do. I mention to him, with a grimace, about the stress experienced at doors. ” I hate The List.” he says, and I know exactly where he’s coming from.
He introduces me to his friend, also from Italy, and we decide to make for the aftershow party. Given my feeble attempt at the aftershow party in Glasgow, and the fact that I am now even more exhausted than I was then, I know this is probably a bad idea, but I want to spend some more time with my Italian friend. Between the three of us we fail to work out how to successfully obtain a ticket from the machine, so we run and board the waiting tram anyway, and I stand for what seems like 3 hours, once again packed between bodies, desperately thirsty, and longing to sit down.
As we walk from the tram stop up to the bar, my friend tells me he recorded the entire show on his phone. “You’re mad” I respond. He doesn’t protest.
Once inside, I head straight for the bar, where I order a pint of water and a pint of beer. I drink the water in two gulps, then carry my beer over to where my companion is now standing glued to his phone as he scrolls through social media feeds, presumably all related to tonight’s show. He tries to show me some items, and feeling about 80 years old, I tell him I can’t see them without my reading glasses.
Feeling unable to gain back his attention, and unable to stand any longer, I find a seat at the edge of the room, and once again view the proceedings as if in a trance. He later finds me to say a few more words before disappearing into the crowds of strangers, and defeated I finish my drink and head back to the tram stop.
Feeling somewhat deflated, I ride the tram, this time with a valid ticket, back to the now deserted arena, since I know my way back to my room from here. I am a little angry and disappointed with myself for not being able to make more of the aftershow party, and I wonder when my Italian friend and I will meet again.
For Morrissey, however, I know I only need to wait until Friday.
Adventures of a middle-aged Morrissey fan 