Brighton, 3rd March 2018

Arriving in Brighton by train the night before the show, I drag my suitcase up a hill and find my Airbnb with ease for once.

My host is super friendly and attentive, and seems to have converted his entire home into a multiple occupancy Airbnb, leaving himself just the basement. He is full of enthusiasm about Brighton, and I am well provided with maps and local recommendations which I peruse in my cosy room at the top of the house before heading back out for food at one of my host’s favourite restaurants.

I haven’t visited Brighton for over 25 years. I remember liking it then, and I absolutely love it now! Its manageable size reminds me of my hometown of Bath, it seems full of vegetarian cafes and interesting, independent shops and businesses, and there is a certain alternative buzz about everything that seems so hard to find in Leeds.

I awake to the cries of seagulls, and after checking out the venue (just because), which has the usual collection of Morrissey fans deposited on the pavement outside, I enjoy a much longer than planned walk along the seafront before heading back into the centre of town to vegetarian heaven.

The temperature has finally risen above zero, but of course this brings rain, and my intention to start queuing at least two hours before doors wavers as I peer out of the little window of my room in a dilemma. However, by around 5pm, my sense of urgency to join the queue becomes too strong for any other considerations, and I plunge bravely down the hill, beneath my hood. But as I approach the venue I can’t see any queue, and the pavement that was occupied this morning is now empty.

Good news – fans have been allowed inside the lobby out of the rain, and everyone is sitting around on the floor in a very leisurely manner. However, they have not yet formed a queue. I dislike late queue forming, as it makes it impossible to establish any arrival order for those not on The List, and thus very hard to relax, and I sit to the side nervously assessing the situation, as more people steadily arrive, and the space continues to fill.

Eventually I decide the best course of action is to deposit myself in the centre of the floor near the doors, and I get chatting to a couple of German ladies who have come to England just for this show. They tell me they also came to England last year to see another favourite of mine, The Chameleons, which amazes me as I rarely meet anyone who has even heard of this band, let alone travelled abroad to see them.

At around 6pm the people on The List finally decide to prepare for entry, and a young lady who I recognise from at least three previous shows walks down the line reading out names. My German friends are puzzled as to what is going on, so I explain to them that these people have been here all day, and will be entering first. “They’re crazy” is the response. We chat some more and it transpires that I have been to every show on the tour so far. “So you’re crazy too.”

The List people are admitted early through one of the four doors, and when it closes behind them no one seems to care that there is now a door with no people waiting at it. I confirm with one of the stewards that the next move will be to open all four doors at once, and swiftly park myself directly in front of the newly vacant door, followed closely by my German friends.

Things are now looking very promising for me, but if anything this serves to increase my pre-doors nerves, and I check with the man standing with a scanner in front of me. “That scanner is definitely working isn’t it? Because in Newcastle I chose the door where the scanner wasn’t working, and all the lines starting moving except mine…blah…blah..” He assures me that it is working, and points out to us the direction we need to take and the stages we need to pass through once through the doors. I feel like I imagine an Olympic sprinter might feel, waiting on the line for the starting pistol.

The doors open, and the scanner isn’t working. I simply cannot believe that this is happening to me again. I could cry as I watch through the glass as people pour in from the other three doors. As was the case in Newcastle, the man with the faulty scanner has no plan B and just stands there like a dummy whilst more and more precious moments are wasted. I snatch my ticket from him and hop over the divider to the neighbouring door, mumbling an explanation and thrusting my ticket at a surprised young steward. No one objects, and I am in.

We run to a desk where wristbands are handed to us, then run with them like relay batons up a staircase three steps at a time and across to a door to the auditorium floor. The man at this door tells us we must be actually wearing our wristbands before entry, which leads to a frenzied fumbling and muttering. Inside, security are dotted around as usual on the floor telling people not to run to the stage, which seems even sillier than normal given that no one was there to prevent us running up the stairs like lunatics, a far more likely risk to health and safety than a flat, open space.

I take a place on second row behind a particularly short man, and again opposite Gustavo’s spot, although I later discover that standing behind someone short is only really a good strategy if you’re at centre stage. I rant and rave about my luck with scanners, at anyone around me who cares to listen, and soon get chatting to a man from London who proves a good companion for the rest of the night. We talk for a long time about our kids, about Morrissey, about other bands, about many things. He is about my age and seems familiar, although I’ve never met him before. He doesn’t join me in sitting on the floor, however, so during my sitting periods I chat to a young lady from Bristol who also suffers from back pain.

Meanwhile, the short man in front of me seems to be practising hoisting himself up on the barrier, as if climbing out of a swimming pool, and leaning over with his arm outstretched. During the show he repeats this trick several times before Morrissey finally notices him and shakes his hand. I slap him on the back to congratulate him at his success.

The crowd is a little pushy, and maintaining position on second row requires some concentration and a firm footing. I am slightly amused to see a man next to me relegated to fourth row as he’s too busy filming the show to realise what was happening. I never get my phone out during shows.

Towards the end of the set, during Everyday is like Sunday, Morrissey comes over to our end of the stage and reaches out to shake several hands. Excepting Birmingham, I have, until now, managed to maintain a mindset of not obsessing about getting a handshake, since this can result in the rather silly situation of leaving a show feeling disappointed when I should be feeling happy. But as this is my last show of the tour, my resolve evaporates, and I am determined. A large man in front of me cannot avoid becoming aware of my efforts, and seems sympathetic to them. Knowing I am running out of time, I ask him to give me a leg up. He declines, but instead says “Go here”, and retreats behind me, thus surrendering his barrier spot to me.

I mimic the trick of the shorter man and hoist myself up on the barrier, reaching out one arm as far as I can. There is no objection from security, and Morrissey, just in the act of moving back towards centre stage, kindly steps forward once more, and for the second time in my life I link fingers with this man for whom I have so much admiration and with whom I have become so fascinated.

My slightly elevated position means my eyes are now in the direct line of one of the stage lights. Its brightness dazzles me and I can’t see Morrissey’s face. I mouth the words, “Thank-you” into the blindness, the hand is gone, and I drop back to the floor, swapping places again with the original occupant of the coveted barrier spot.

I am utterly elated. All the bad aftertaste and disappointment of Birmingham is erased. Not only because I have once more managed that brief connection, but also because I am reassured that there still exist in the world Morrissey fans who understand each other, recognise and appreciate a common ground, and support each other in their common goals. I thank the barrier sharing man profusely, and he is clearly happy for me, as is my friend from London. It is the perfect end to the tour for me.

I sit smiling to myself on my return train to Leeds the next day. It’s been a fantastic fortnight, and now my heart is full.