I awake to find that the already substantial amount of snow, deposited upon Leeds the previous day, has been significantly topped up overnight. My son’s school is closed, and all news outlets are flooded with stories of travel disruption, the country at a standstill, and general tales of woe. Snow is still falling, and under any other circumstances I would not even consider leaving the house. But this is a Morrissey show, and I have to at least try. If anywhere is reachable, it’s London, and I have all day to get there.
A quick online investigation informs me that my train is still scheduled, and local buses are still running, so feeling optimistic, I lace up my boots and crunch my way to the nearest bus stop, my suitcase hanging from one arm, since the snow is too deep for it to be wheeled behind me.
I arrive at the station without mishap, and well before my departure time, and initially find my train still scheduled. But this doesn’t last. After a stroll around the station to kill time, I return to the departure boards to find all trains to London are now cancelled, and passengers are advised to travel to York (the wrong direction).
Undeterred, I make my way to the platform where the next York train is due, to find a horde of cold, anxious looking people with suitcases, but no train, and constantly changing information on the screens. Soon, every train listed has the status of ‘cancelled’.
A station employee is talking to a few travellers and I hover around to hear what is being said. York bound trains are all stuck behind a broken down train near Huddersfield. He has no idea when this will be resolved, but assures us that if we can get to York, trains are running to London from there.
A man and his daughter are trying to get to Heathrow Airport, and the man calls a taxi firm who quote £35 to York. He orders one, recruits another nearby couple to share it with, suggests I find three other people with whom to do the same, and disappears with his trio down the platform.
I sit shivering on a cold metal bench, calculating how much time I have to spare, and eyeing potential taxi share recruits. I text my husband and ask, half joking, half serious, if he fancies driving me to York, knowing full well that the car is buried under several feet of snow on our drive. He replies advising me to return home immediately. However, just then, a train appears on another platform, the station employee points at it and says ‘York’, and I join a mad rush of people and luggage up the stairs, and over the bridge.
Waiting for the next London train on the platform in York, I am spotted by the quartet who took the taxi. They ask me if I too got here by taxi, and laugh heartily when I tell them I have arrived by train.
I arrive in London a mere one hour behind my scheduled time, and check into my small hotel feeling rather pleased with myself.
I then purposefully arrive at the venue at 6pm, having decided one hour queuing in the sub-zero temperatures is all I can manage, and I wave to the familiar faces at the front of the line as I pass them to head to the end.
The line isn’t too long, but Brixton Academy is sponsored by O2, and a female steward keeps walking up and down the line, seeking out people who are on the O2 network, and placing them in a ‘priority queue.’ I watch with increasing irritation as people from way behind me are rounded up, and this competing line rapidly grows to alarming proportions. Three ladies in front of me see my concern and reassure me that our line will start moving at the same time, but this is little comfort, and I begin to resign myself to the idea of being further back than at previous shows.
When 7pm arrives the lines do indeed seem to move forward simultaneously, and on entering the lobby I find complete chaos within. I take full advantage of this by slithering through the crowd, since no-one seems to take much notice when you’re on your own. There are shouts of ‘ladies to the left’ which I use as an excuse for further slithering, and manage to overtake at least 30 people before reaching the search point, and running past still more to reach the final door to the auditorium floor.
I take a place on second row, to the right of the stage, opposite Gustavo’s spot. The slightly panting lady next to me has been queuing all afternoon, so I omit to mention that I only arrived an hour ago. I then notice that there is a small gap between the two men on the barrier in front of me, instead of the usual shoulders wedged together, and catching the eye of one of them as he turns his head to look around, I instigate some conversation before fluttering my eyelashes and asking if there’s room for one more. He shuffles to the right, and lo and behold, I have a barrier spot. Result!
Now all there is to do is wait. I remove my hat and gloves, but noticing that it still seems to be inexplicably cold, I keep my coat on, looking up at the ceiling to confirm that this is indeed an indoor venue. An icy wind is blowing in from somewhere, seemingly from under the stage, and my coat remains on for the entire show, which I find slightly bizarre.
The stage is much lower than at the previous shows, but is also rounded, and disconcertingly curves away just at the point where it reaches me. The whole venue has a different feel to the large corporate arenas, which Morrissey adds to by throwing out a curve ball and opening the set with The Last of the Famous International Playboys, the first time live since 2011, and it feels like the tour has entered a new phase. Later in the set he reaches out to shake my hand, but due to the aforementioned curved stage, I can’t quite reach him, and all I can do is grin like an idiot.
I have the next day free to spend in London before onward travel to Brighton for the next show. Not being a great fan of London, but being a great fan of Morrissey, I have a pre-planned route of some of Morrissey’s old residences which I have gleaned from his Autobiography, and which will tie in nicely with a trip to Boz’s record store in Camden.
The address hunting all goes to plan, although it is still bitterly cold, and my hands ache every time I remove my gloves to take photos.
When I reach Boz’s shop I enter feeling rather foolish, and the friendly man inside asks if he can help. I cut to the chase and confess I am a Morrissey fan hoping to catch Boz here. Boz will be in later, he tells me, so I retreat to a nearby coffee shop and warm myself for a while before returning for one more try. The man recognises me immediately, announces Boz is now here, and tells me to go on down to the basement, even though the sign on the door still says closed.
Feeling painfully shy, and with no idea what I will say, I push the door open to find a group of three Morrissey fans already there with Boz, one of whom I met in Dublin, another of whom I recognise as being particularly active in my favourite Facebook group. I manage to introduce myself to her, but am too shy to do the same with Boz, let alone ask him for a photo, and after some chat between the five of us, Boz shuffles off carrying a box of vinyl, and I am officially a complete idiot.
Poking around Camden market, pretending not to care that I have just squandered a valuable opportunity, snow starts to fall heavily. I hastily buy a Clash t-shirt for my son that is far too big for him, and head back to my hotel to collect my suitcase before embarking on my short journey to Brighton. There’s no going back, but there is one more show to look forward to.
Adventures of a middle-aged Morrissey fan 