Right from the beginning, I knew Blackpool was going to be a very special show for me. It started when I achieved the seemingly impossible – I scored a front row centre seat, the instant tickets went on sale. This never happens. Never. I study photos and videos of the venue, grinning. There doesn’t appear to be a barrier. This is going to be a good one.
Blackpool itself isn’t the most desirable location, but I’ve always been told the illuminations are a ‘must see’, and apparently they will already be alight at the end of September. As the hotel is as cheap as the chips the seagulls live on, I splurge on two nights, and arrive by train the night before the show to see what all the fuss is about.
Dragging my little suitcase towards my hotel, I smile as I spot a Morrissey poster secured on the inside of a shop window with Blu Tack. The shop is closed, but hoping to gain possession of the poster the next day, I make a mental note of the location.
My hotel isn’t the modern tower block I had for some reason imagined, but a small, old building that’s clearly seen worse days, and has been brought back from the dead by Comfort Inn. Gasping, but somehow still alive. My Canadian friend is residing in a similarly quirky dwelling a few doors away, where we sit alone in the bar, our Morrissey tour spirits in no way dampened.
The illuminations are a predictably tacky affair, and the whole town has a strange, deserted feel about it, like a celebration party to which nobody showed up. This is the coastal town that they forgot to close down.
The next day my first stop is the shop with the Morrissey poster, but disappointingly, it is still closed, so I head next for the venue. The main doors are now flanked on either side by giant Morrissey posters, and I spend an inordinate amount of time circling the building, entering and exiting the complex through different doorways, peering through the glass of closed doors, taking photographs, and generally behaving as if I’m planning an armed robbery.
Within the large lobby area of the Winter Gardens is a short row of doors, labelled Opera House. I push each of them gently to find one open, and venturing through it, I tentatively push another door within, labelled Stalls. I am a little surprised when the door opens to reveal that I have managed to infiltrate the theatre itself, and I lurk just outside for a few moments, watching the set up taking place on stage, before snapping a photo and retreating like a spy, knowing that I have overstepped. My glimpse has confirmed the absence of a barrier at the stage, and I know tonight is going to be special.
I return again to the shop containing the poster. Still closed. I ask at the box office for spare posters. No.
I spend some time actually being a tourist with some more Canadian friends. We chatter about all things Morrissey, speculate on how venue security will handle things tonight (always the big unknown at seated venues), and wander the seafront and pier. Heading back towards the hotel I spy a van being unloaded outside the venue, which proves to be the setting up of the merchandise stall inside the lobby. I ask if I can buy one of the large tour posters they already have out on display, but am told they’re not yet open for business. Why is it so damn hard to acquire a poster today?!
Having noted that there is a further set of doors to the theatre directly from the street outside, I ask a security guy, who has begun prowling the lobby, which doors provide the most direct access to the front of the stalls. He doesn’t answer my question, but asserts that we will be shown to our seats upon entry. I start muttering about Morrissey fans at Morrissey shows, but he stops me. “I’ve done Morrissey shows before”, he declares.
Back in the hotel bar, my friend asks why I am so anxious. “You have a front row seat” she says. “You’ve got nothing to worry about”. I haven’t been to many seated Morrissey shows, but the ones I have been to have taught me to take no chances, and assume nothing.
Excitement is building as I return to the lobby once more, listen to the soundcheck, and finally acquire a tour poster, which I whisk back to my hotel room for safekeeping. Taking a deep breath, I now leave the room carrying just my phone, key and ticket. Here we go.
By now, the lobby is all abuzz with fans, hugging and smiling, crowding around the merch stand, and chattering excitedly. I eventually weave my way to the theatre doors and lean on the most central of them, trying to look casual. A British guy who I’ve not met before, recognises me from social media, and tells me he has managed to get a ticket for a row B seat, which he seems very pleased with. We chat together, along with anyone else who has the good sense to stand near the doors, and I am the first to enter when they eventually open. (this also never happens).
I set off purposefully down the steps towards the stage to join the guest list members already leaning on it, being careful to position myself directly in front of my seat, which is just right of centre. I wonder how long I will be allowed to stand here, and expect to be asked at any moment to sit down, but no such request comes. Instead, a crowd builds up quickly around me, including my new British friend on my right, and another British friend, who has a row O ticket, just behind me. My Canadian friend, who has a balcony ticket, messages me telling me to look to my right, and there she is, leaning on the stage further along. This is great!
The stage is about 3 foot high, the microphone stand not much further away, and our collective delight at being here is palpable. We are simply buzzing with excitement, and the 90 minute wait flies by. I spend some time sitting on the edge of the stage to rest my back. Even this fails to draw the attention of any security staff, and I gaze around at the ornate theatre, enchanted.
When Morrissey appears, we are transported further into a dream world. Handshakes come easily and early, and the atmosphere is one of sheer delight. My new friend has brought a vinyl copy of the album, World Peace Is None Of Your Business, which he is hoping Morrissey will sign for him. To this end, he has no qualms about calling out to Morrissey between songs, and although Morrissey initially declines, he soon relents, and strides towards us.
My friend gasps in disbelief, as if he didn’t really mean or expect for this to happen. His emotion is very much evident, and I manage to record on my phone what is clearly a very special moment for him.
@maladjustedoll82
When the orange fog of Jack the Ripper fills the stage I judge this to be the last song before the encore, as was the case at the previous show in Killarney. This, I feel, might be a good time to get on stage for a hug, before the potential mayhem of the encore. With the absence of a barrier, my central position, and the height of the stage so manageable, I know this is the best chance I’ll get on this tour. I wait and watch like a cat ready to pounce, wanting Morrissey to be as close as possible, to give me the best chance of reaching him before security reach me. Twice I get my knee up onto the stage, then hesitate. Just a little closer! As the song draws to a close I decide I’ve procrastinated long enough, and must now act, and within a couple of seconds I am up on the stage, feeling a helpful push from behind, and I approach Morrissey with arms outstretched, hoping for some sort of indication from him that it’s OK to proceed. He completely ignores me, but feeling that to simply get back down now would be even more silly than I already feel, I give him a quick, gentle hug before being escorted back to my spot by security.
Hands pat my back, and everywhere I turn I see smiles and thumbs up, and it feels as if I’m a member of a team for whom I have just scored a goal in the last minutes of the game.
The encore begins, and my friend with the newly signed vinyl expresses his desire to follow in my footsteps, although we notice on stage security are not being so tolerant now. However, he makes the attempt, managing a handshake before being hurled back in my face. It is lucky we both emerge uninjured.
When the show ends, several more people congratulate me on my timing, and I’m not entirely sure what they mean, but I later learn that security had been occupied with another potential stage invader just at the moment I chose to strike. Blackpool really has been my lucky show.
The success and brilliance of the event is celebrated back in the hotel bar with the same trusty pair of friends who ended the evening with me in Killarney. We also befriend the young bar man, who keeps the bar open late for us, and allows us to order a pizza delivery to consume at our table, hunger catching up with us now that the preshow butterflies have settled until the next time.
Dragging my suitcase back towards the train station in the morning, the shop with the poster is still closed, but I don’t have long to feel disappointed, as just a few doors further on I spy another identical poster, which I must have missed the first time I passed. I brazenly ask inside if I may take possession of it. The woman hesitates, obviously thinking this strange, but makes no objection, and I peel its corners carefully away from the window, and roll it up to join my larger tour poster from the merch stand.
Everything has worked out perfectly in Blackpool, from start to finish. I can’t imagine things getting any better, and I still have seven more shows to come.
Adventures of a middle-aged Morrissey fan 