The Birmingham show is one of only two shows on this tour to which my husband is able to accompany me. A lighter-weight Morrissey fan, he point blank refuses to queue with me, preferring to spend some time in Birmingham instead (aka in Birmingham’s pubs). “We can just queue for an hour.” I try. “But we’ll still have to stand for 2 1/2 hours inside waiting for the show to start” he points out. I hadn’t even considered this aspect, or that it would be something a less dedicated fan would find objectionable.
Since I’m going to eight shows on this tour, and time off together without our child is a rarity for us, I decide I can sacrifice this one show. This is on the condition that he gives me a leg up during the encore so I can crowd surf over the barrier and get a handshake, a feat I accomplished with surprising ease at a Morrissey show in London a few years ago.
We set off at lunchtime through the snow, park at the arena, and take a train into the centre of Birmingham where we stroll along canals, before heading for warm pubs and restaurants. The weather really is bitingly cold, and I admire the icicles under the canal bridges, and the commitment of the queuing fans.
On the return train we overhear a young lady telling her boyfriend how it has been her ‘lifelong mission’ to see Morrissey, and that last time he came to Birmingham, her mum wouldn’t let her go. My husband immediately strikes up a conversation with her, asking her what other music she likes; a sort of research into the younger generation’s tastes. When he tells her he saw The Smiths in the eighties she is in awe, gazing at him as if he is some rare fossil she has just uncovered.
The route from the station to the arena is a thick stream of Morrissey fans. My husband tries to instigate a Morrissey chant, but to no avail. In hindsight, this sets the tone for the evening.
We arrive at 8pm and are, as expected, about 20 rows back from the stage. It’s all very sedentary compared to the buzz at the front, to which I have now become accustomed. The overall view of the stage, with the backdrops and lighting, is better. That’s the only positive I can think of, and I look forward to being back up front at the next shows.
When the encore starts I weave my way through to where the crowd is denser. “What are you doing?” demands a lady I have arrived next to. “I want to surf over” I tell her. “Well you can’t!” she replies, with the finality of a teacher addressing a pupil. Since the music is a little too loud to explain to her that actually, I can, I have done before, as have many others, and she can go fuck herself, I simply ignore her and enlist the reluctant and halfhearted help of a man who succeeds in elevating me above, but not launching me on my way over, the crowd.
“Don’t do that!”, shrieks Mrs Wannabe-Security Guard, pulling at my arm. Not being in possession of any useful weapons, I attempt to kill her with a look, and sidestep through the crowd to escape her interference, only to find myself surrounded by zombies. The friendly camaraderie of the London show, where I was hoisted with enthusiasm by two strangers and passed to the front in seconds, just isn’t here, and no-one seems to know what crowd surfing is, let alone understand why I would want to do it.
The show ends and my husband appears, shaking his head at what he considers to be complete craziness on my part. I vent my frustration, and chide him for not following me through the crowd so he could give me the promised leg up. All future deals are off.
We exit the building and join the walk of the living dead back to the car parks. Oh, Birmingham! What happened to all those happy crowd surfers from 2015? Truly disappointed.
Adventures of a middle-aged Morrissey fan 