Just under a week before the Leeds show, I receive an email from First Direct Arena, asking me if I would like to upgrade to the premium package for an additional £30, which would entitle me to early entry into the VIP lounge for a pre-show meal. Hovering over the delete button, the words early entry catch my eye, and although thinking this was a long shot, I type a quick reply, asking if early entry to the VIP lounge would also mean I could be one of the first to access the auditorium floor when doors opened to the general public.
To my surprise, I receive a response within half an hour. Yes, I could enter the VIP lounge when it opens at 5pm, then could access the auditorium directly from here at 6pm.
I have never parted with £30 so quickly.
No queue, no cold, no stress, no backache. Just an afternoon of resting up, getting ready for the show. This all seems too good to be true, and I still worry that something will occur to thwart my plan; a horde of other Moz fans with the same idea, a one minute delay at doors opening time….
The day arrives and after a lie in following the Newcastle show, a trip into town to take photos and visit the pop-up shop, and a quick afternoon nap, I present myself at the VIP entrance at 5pm with breathless anticipation.
I undergo the usual security search and ticket check, and confirm that this will not need to be repeated. Once inside, I am greeted by a young woman who asks if I am having a meal. No, I’m not (I can never eat before Morrissey shows), but can she tell me how I get into the auditorium and confirm that I will be able to do this promptly at 6pm?
I am pleased that she seems to take this seriously and, asking me to wait a moment, she disappears and swiftly returns with a man in a suit, who also seems to appreciate the importance of my enquiries. He asks me if I have been given a wrist band, which he then fetches and attaches for me, after asking me which wrist I prefer. He then shows me through a door at the back of the lounge which leads to some corridors where a lady stands at another door, pressing a green door release button every time someone appears on either side of it.
This is the door through which I will enter. He will be radioed a message as soon as the main doors are opened, which he will then relay to this lady. They tell me I just need to walk along a short corridor to the concourse, where I should then get to the front of the queue for the auditorium which will not open until 6.30pm. Since I have already been searched and wristbanded, they tell me, I should reach the concourse before anyone else.
Feeling mighty pleased with myself, I return to the lounge where I sit in a comfy chair nibbling crisps and drinking soda water, taking care that I cannot be seen through the window by the fans queuing outside in the Siberian wind.
At around 5.45pm I spot a woman in a Morrissey jacket, also asking staff about entry arrangements. Pre-Morrissey-show nerves apparently leave me devoid of all rational thought, and fearing that she might have a small army of fans hidden somewhere in the corner of the lounge, I jump up, request a plastic cup of water at the bar (a luxury I would not be afforded in normal entry circumstances), and head for the magic door.
The door release lady is surprised to see me so soon, and encourages me to go and sit down again and relax. I try to impress upon her the enormity of the situation, but this doesn’t appear to penetrate, and I am awash with nerves again.
The woman in the Morrissey jacket appears, without an army, but with a fresh faced young lady who I think she says is her niece at her first Morrissey show. The man in the suit also appears, which I find reassuring, and sure enough, at 6pm, he gives permission for us to enter.
We walk briskly down the corridor and head for the top of some stairs which are cordoned off and guarded by two personnel. “Is this where we need to queue for the auditorium?” I ask, but before either can reply, Sam Esty Rayner, Morrissey’s photographer nephew, appears at the top of the stairs complete with camera. The woman in the Morrissey jacket is clearly very pleased at this opportunity to meet him (I would be too if I didn’t have more pressing matters to attend to at this moment), and starts talking to him enthusiastically. “Is this where we need to queue for the auditorium?” I bark again at security, over her voice. “Other side”, one of them replies casually. Other side?! I turn and see, to my alarm, a line of people progressing rapidly from the main doors towards the top of a twin staircase on the opposite side of the concourse. Run!
I reach the cord at the top of the stairs just in time, and find I am now surrounded by a shivering, excited mass, somewhat perplexed to find their progress halted, and apparently too excited to have noticed my mysterious appearance amongst them. I can feel the cold emitting from them, but they express no relief at being inside; they have not yet reached the barrier, and tensions are still running high.
We must now stand for half an hour, eyeing the staircase before us. I express aloud some concern as to how we will get down this safely once the cord in front of us is removed, conscious of the rabid pack behind us, and am assured that there is some plan in place. Excepting one nearby man who chats happily to me, I seem to be mainly surrounded by nervous teenage girls, and I take a furtive look around to see if I recognise anyone from previous shows, but spot only one of my Japanese friends and a man from Dublin. They don’t see me; their eyes are fixed on the staircase ahead.
At 6.30pm, a new security man appears and tells us he will let us in before the crowd at the other staircase, as we were here first. “But any pushing or running and I will open the other staircase.” he warns. The cord is removed and he stands before us, arms wide, while the other security staff hold a long piece of tape between them.
We are herded slowly and carefully, like a flock of sheep, down the staircase, through a door into the auditorium, and slowly towards the stage, with regular warnings from the head man. Whether he gives a signal, or the crowd act spontaneously in unison, I’m not sure, but there is a sudden dash forwards, and the barrier is occupied in a split second.
Desperately, my eyes scan the barrier for a space, I run for one near the centre, and get my hand on it at the same time as another young man. We both hesitate for just a tiny moment before I push brutally in front of him, and press myself firmly against the barrier, with both arms hooked over it, shocked at my own rudeness, and surprised that there is no retaliation.
By fair means or foul, I have done it! I am on centre barrier at a Morrissey show at Leeds arena. I have been dreaming of this ever since I saw Morrissey here from the seats three years ago, and I can’t quite believe it’s really happening.
“Are you OK?” asks the young lady on my right. I must have been looking a bit shell shocked. She is very excited too, about half my age, and from Wales, and proves to be good company during the following 2 1/2 hour wait.
The intensity of the crowd is more evident than at any previous shows on the tour so far, and as such we are already packed so closely together that sitting on the floor, as I normally do at this stage, is simply not an option. My young friend offers to give me a back massage. Instead, I ask her to hold my cup of water, which has miraculously remained in my hand, whilst I rummage in my money belt for codeine.
I ask her how she discovered Morrissey, and she tells me an ex-boyfriend introduced her to The Smiths. “The only good thing I got from that relationship” she adds. “People think he’s depressing, but I just find some of his lyrics so funny.” she continues. I nod agreement, adding, “Some of his songs are sad though, and that is one of the things that makes him stand out. He’s so open and honest. Many people suffer from depression, and yet it’s still such a taboo subject. Why shouldn’t someone sing about it? Morrissey does it so well, unlike anyone else.” She looks thoughtful, as if she’s never considered this perspective before, and agrees no-one does it better.
When Morrissey arrives on stage she screams directly into my ear, Beatles mania style, for two whole minutes. I don’t mind, feeling she’s screaming for both of us. The show is a blur, a dream, 90 minutes of being so happily pressed up against the metal barrier that I’m barely aware of the 12,000 people behind me.
From time to time towards the end of the show, the head of a crowd surfer will appear on our shoulders, and we happily assist them into the space at the foot of the stage where we watch them hopefully, as they grapple with security before reaching Morrissey’s kindly outstretched hand, feeling their desperation and joy. One of them manages to turn to us before he is dragged away, acknowledging the part we have played, and our shared passion, with a fist pump, which we return with a thumbs up, and I can hear my neighbour laughing at the fun of it all.
Morrissey returns for the encore without changing his shirt, and it flies towards me at the end of the show, leaving me once again gripping tightly to a sleeve in a confused mass of hands, arms and heads, this time trapped with my back against the barrier while security reach over my head with scissors.
My husband, who arrived at the show some hours after me, appears from nowhere, and I surreptitiously slip my prize to him, telling him to pocket it quickly, as I wriggle out of the scrum.
As we walk together to the aftershow party he speaks in lukewarm terms about the show, bemoaning the fact that Speedway wasn’t played. (what is it with blokes and Speedway?!) I am slightly irritated by his lack of enthusiasm, since I have just experienced one of the best nights of my life, but I am soaring far too high for anything to bring me down.
Mission Leeds well and truly accomplished, and with 3 more shows to go, will life ever be sane again?
Adventures of a middle-aged Morrissey fan 