After a few days at home in Leeds, recuperating from my trip to Cologne, I am ready to embark on my next Morrissey trip, this time to London. It is an unusal Morrissey trip in that my husband and son are accompanying me, grabbing an opportunity for a weekend excursion, and we all set off by train on the morning of the show, arriving at Kings Cross around midday. My son has only ever visited London once before and is keen to see some of the main tourist sites, and we spend a few hours together before going our separate ways at a tube station from where I travel onwards to Wembley, check into our hotel, and go into my usual pre-Morrissey show mode; try to stay calm, try to eat, try to rest.
I have been called a ‘smart strategist’ when it comes to reaching the front of a Morrissey show, a term I rather like, and one which I aspire to live up to. Accordingly, I employ one of my smart strategies to gain entry to the venue well before the main doors are open, and with further stealthy manoeuvring I actually outdo myself by gaining early access to the auditorium itself where I stand alone at centre barrier, grinning like the cat that got the cream.
It seems, however, that I am possibly becoming over confident, the dream doesn’t last long, and I am shortly escorted unceremoniously back behind closed doors. You know I couldn’t last. However, I am still inside the venue, so all is not yet lost, and I spend an extremely stressful half hour employing all my powers of assertiveness and determination in order to gain re-entry just in time to secure a barrier spot on Boz’s side.
It is only now that I notice that the barrier appears to be about half a mile from the stage. I’m not sure if I’ve just been spoilt by last year’s attendance at small Canadian venues with no barrier, or if, as others suggest, the concept of social distancing has taken root, and those on stage, and the security staff standing at the foot of it, are to be protected by this vast distance from the germ spreading potential of the crowd.
In fact, it feels rather lucky to many that the show is going ahead at all in the current climate. So much so that it seems a number of alleged fans feel the need to take to social media to express their disgust at such recklessness. Morrissey is judged, and conclusions jumped to, every time one of his shows is cancelled. Here, he is judged, and conclusions jumped to, when one of his shows is not cancelled. It seems he is to be held responsible for government policy, and any humour expressed during the show is used as evidence of God knows what. It is all so utterly, typically stupid.
Fortunately, I remain mostly unaware of this irritation until after the show, and for now, I leave off gazing at the gulf between myself and the stage to welcome an excited and emotional young lady with an American accent who has just appeared at my left elbow, shaking with adrenalin and the stress of the venue entry she has just experienced, but extremely happy to have made the barrier. We chatter excitedly on and off, and she shows me an impressive picture of Morrissey she has drawn that she was hoping to give to him. I suggest that letting him see it, then making a skillful throw might be her best bet, and at some point during the show she manages both these feats, and I am pleased for her.
I now receive a message from my husband informing me that he has purchased two cheap tickets from a shady character outside the venue, and that I can soon expect to see him and my son in the seats to my left. I am delighted that they have decided to join me, partly to share the experience with them, albeit from different vantage points, and partly because of the knowledge that in years to come, my son will be able to say that when he was 13 years old he saw Morrissey live at Wembley arena. He doesn’t realise yet.
Since the crowd are not so tightly packed together as they were at this point in Leeds, I am able to sit down during the 2 ½ hour wait for the show to begin, leaning back against the barrier looking at my phone and many pairs of feet, and I have hopes that we will not experience the same degree of pushing and shoving that we did in Leeds. Not so. As soon as the show begins, the crowd turn into a rabid mob, and I must continually ensure that my arm is pressed up against that of the young man on my right in order to prevent us being ousted from our coveted barrier spots. This has the effect of inching us gradually to the right over time, and the young lady on my left is not so savvy and is later replaced by a fresh face. Whenever Morrissey comes near I have to block my ears to protect them from the piercing shrieks of young audience members at my shoulders.
I only describe these details, of which I am vaguely aware during the show, because I find it so impossible to describe the real drama, happening on stage right in front of me.
At the end of the show Morrissey throws his t-shirt towards us but it doesn’t make the extra distance and lands in the void before us amidst a tussle between security and a crowd member they are apparently in the process of ejecting. There are more screams, and one of the security guards responds by quickly tossing the coveted item towards us. A young lady just near me is the lucky recipient, wisely ducking down into the darkness with her prize, and despite the jungle of grappling hands, when the lights come up and the crowd starts to disperse, she stands against the barrier with a look of disbelief on her face. After some enquiry, it is confirmed that she has managed to retain the entire t-shirt, I assume secreted somewhere about her person, and it is now she who smiles like the cat that got the cream.
Outside there is a gathering of various familiar faces, and we eventually head with some Canadian friends to our hotel bar, since this means our son can go to bed whilst we stay up for drinks. I expect the bar to be dead and lifeless, but it is packed with Morrissey fans and buzzing with post-show merriment.
The next day brings more London sight-seeing and a visit to Boz and Lynn in their little Camden record store. We chat with them as if they are old friends, before heading out again to explore Camden market, which we are informed is much quieter than usual amidst coronavirus fears. “I wouldn’t travel on the Tube”, Boz states, and there is a sense that things are closing in on us. Indeed, the next few days bring the curtains down on life as we currently know it, and our weekend in London is still remembered as our last jaunt before lockdown.
Adventures of a middle-aged Morrissey fan 