At 6am I am wide awake. Last night’s post show negativity has depressed me, and I already dread the bleakness of the long flight home. Something is missing somehow. I need to do something to lift myself out of this, to ensure I get the most from these much anticipated few days.
Thinking over last night’s show, I reflect again on the number of letters I saw Morrissey taking from people in the crowd last night. Why have I never written to him? I’m happy to write a blog, but I can’t write a letter. What is wrong with me?
Then I realise, that’s it. I need to write a letter. I climb out of bed and sit at the little wooden table in my room, considering it. I have a pen, but no paper. What could I write on? I had printed out my original row 3 ticket for last night, in case I wanted to sell or give it to anyone at the venue, but it had sold online a couple of hours before the show. Consequently the paper version remains intact in my suitcase, an uncrumpled, sizeable sheet, entirely blank on one side. There is a pad of Post-It Notes on the table, so I write a first draft in tiny writing, then copy a legible version to the back of the ticket. When I have finished, I fold the ticket so a blank portion is showing on the front, write ‘Silly note’ in large capitals, and there I have it; my first letter to Morrissey.
I am still not entirely happy with what I have written, but tell myself I need to stop over-thinking it. It has to be done.
After further failed attempts at sleep, it is lunchtime by the time I emerge from my room again in search of food. Being British, I am unfazed by the Vancouver rain, and happily stroll out beneath my umbrella. Always feeling the need to go up a tall building when I visit such places, I already have a ticket, purchased online, for the Vancouver Lookout, and wonder if it is still worthwhile in the current weather conditions, but in the absence of any other wet weather plan I proceed anyway. It is very much worthwhile; the views are still striking, and best of all, there is hardly anyone up there. I spend a peaceful hour walking around in circles, gazing through the glass, pondering everything.
Whilst atop the Lookout, I receive a message from a friend to say he is planning to arrive at the venue much earlier tonight. I concur with this plan. Last night has given us a heads up; there are a relatively small number of front row spots up for grabs, and with security seemingly allowing anyone to stand, with no ticket checks, it’s pretty much a free-for-all.
However, by the time I get back to my room I realise time is getting away from me, and I find myself suddenly feeling panicky as I stuff my essential items into my money belt that I always use for shows, since security take less time to search it than they would a handbag, and head back out towards downtown.
When I arrive I join some friends in the queue that has already formed. The ladies from California, who I first met in Glasgow last year, are now here, fresh from the airport, and we talk them through what to expect at doors, based on last night’s experience. Everyone is nervous, and the conversation lags as 7pm approaches and anxiety levels increase. The doors open and we all make an effort to stay calm, and I watch anxiously, feeling keenly every second that ticks by, as one by one my friends undergo the security checks in front of me and disappear into the venue. At last it is my turn, I am through, and I rush up and down the short flights of steps to the auditorium doors to join them again in our new lines.
The tension at doors at a Morrissey show is unbelievable, like nothing I have ever experienced in any other situation, and now feeling physically sick, I take minimal comfort in discovering from the nervous chatter that I am by no means alone in these feelings. Every single opportunity to see Morrissey, even for those who are able to see him far more frequently than I, is like a unique, priceless jewel. Getting into the best position to enjoy these precious moments is simply everything right now, it is the world, and we know that every second is crucial. The smallest of mishaps at this stage; a faulty scanner, a jammed door, a stumble, can change everything.
At 7.30pm we run in, our eyes fixed on the prize now visible ahead. As was the case last night, I feel I want to run faster, but unable to pass the people in front of me without pushing, I shout “Go go go!” like someone cheering from the bleachers. The coveted spaces against the stage disappear in a flash. I manage the same spot as last night, although this time a lady appears from nowhere and slots in between me and the monitor, the ladies from California being tonight’s unlucky victims of this obstruction, although happily they seem unperturbed by it.
Success! I have made it, and as soon as I am able to breath again I introduce myself to my new neighbour, who for once does not appear to be half my age. She is from New York, and has clearly been to many a Morrissey show in her time. I then realise that to my immediate right is a security guard standing with his back against the stage, presumably having taken his position earlier this time following last night’s shenanigans, and for a change of position and view, I occasionally turn to lean back on the stage in the same style, admiring the rather beautiful features of the theatre and the scene in general. This puts me face to face with the man standing behind me, and he takes the opportunity to apologise in advance for reaching across and over me; he has not stood at the front of a Morrissey show before and is hoping for a handshake, having observed many taking place last night from his position back in the seats. I wish him luck and tell him to reach all he likes, warning him that once he has been up at the front he will never want to be further back again. His friend laughs. “I know” he replies, resignedly.
At last Morrissey appears, and by opening with You’ll Be Gone, transports me back to the heady days of last year’s UK tour, the like of which I fear will never be repeated.
I have my letter ready and hold it out at what seem like opportune moments, although I try to show some decorum and refrain from waving it frantically every time Morrissey comes near. As the show starts to near a close, I know that for the sake of my own sanity I must make that connection I crave, and feel that I may have to jump onstage again during the encore, although I am very wary of making another attempt of this kind, feeling that after my success in Toronto I should probably quit while I’m ahead.
But tonight a stage invasion proves unnecessary for me. Finally, during the encore, Morrissey takes my letter. He looks at the words written on the front, and then back at me with a raised eyebrow and a twinkle in his eye. I am already delighted to have provoked a reaction, but then having freed up his hand after pocketing the letter, he steps forward again and extends it to me, and we shake hands. I feel honoured indeed!
I fight back a few tears during the last couple of minutes of the show and watch, smiling like a Cheshire Cat, as once again a topless Morrissey disappears into the darkness at the back of the stage. I don’t know when I’ll see him again, but I am happy.
My two trips to Canada this year will always stand out as some of my most special memories, and I round the evening off in a bar with a sizeable gathering of happy fans, all smiles, photos and video clips, all with our own memories to treasure and to sustain us.
Adventures of a middle-aged Morrissey fan 