I last visited Brighton in 2018, for a Morrissey show of course, and I loved it. I find it has some real character, away from the inevitable tacky British seaside trappings, and a distinct, alternative buzz. So I was pleased to see it included again on the list of tour locations.
Emerging directly from a few nights stay in London, where I experience the pain of the Palladium, the brilliance of Brixton, and my new post-pandemic flexibility to work remotely, I have only a short train journey to complete before I find myself in Brighton, the afternoon before the show.
I have managed to secure the same AirBnb room at which I had stayed in 2018, in a friendly, busy house full of guests, and I deposit my luggage in my little room at the top of the house, feeling very much at home, before heading back down the hill into the town.
I stop first at the venue to admire and enquire about tour posters, many of which I also find pasted on billboards as I stroll along the seafront, but I cannot see how I could possibly remove them without ripping them, although I note several suspicious looking poster sized gaps in various locations. When I later return to my room and scroll through my social media feeds, my suspicions are confirmed, with a number of friends having evidently managed to gain their free souvenir in one piece, and I scratch my head, puzzled, and annoyed at my own apparent incompetence.
Clearly drawn to the familiar, I venture back out once more, to eat at the same little noodle restaurant, unchanged since my 2018 visit. Nobody seems inclined for much of a night out, with most planning to either sleep out or arrive at the venue very early the next morning, but my German friend takes up my suggestion for a walk along the seafront, so I head there next, to meet her. She is on the lookout for Morrissey posters, although she fears they have all been taken already, but it’s not long before she spies one and quickens her pace to make a brisk beeline for it, whereupon she immediately starts to peel it carefully away from the board. I try to help, but immediately cause a small tear, so I give up sheepishly, and stand uselessly watching, impressed, as she patiently and methodically works the poster free, then asks me to take a photo of her proudly holding her prize.
A short distance on, and we spot another poster, which receives the same treatment, this time with me being the happy new owner.
Having collected three posters in total, we continue to walk for some time. It’s not often I find someone on tour who shares my love of just walking, walking. We both want to feel tired enough to be able to sleep early, and so make an early start in the queue the next morning. My friend informs me that she has purchased a sleeping bag and camping mat, and I am a little concerned at how hopelessly unprepared I am myself, but still determined to make this last effort on the final show of the tour.
My friend is feeling nervous about the queue situation, and wishes to make one last stop at the venue to check on things, before we both retire to our respective rooms. It seems her instincts were correct, as we cross the road opposite the venue to discover a group of four Morrissey fans recently arrived, and planning to spend the night here. It is now 9pm. We wish them dry weather, since there is no shelter, and tell them we’ll be back early in the morning, but my friend is clearly concerned that the queue is already starting.
Back in my room, I pack myself a little rucksack of snacks, a book, a bottle of water and a little rug that is on the floor of my room, and set my alarm for 5am…
I wake suddenly at around 4.45am, and find I have a message from a British friend, sent just after midnight, to warn me that there are ‘quite a few’ already in the queue. I jump up immediately, layer up with every item of clothing in my suitcase, and carrying my rucksack I tip toe down the stairs and out of the front door, which I close softly behind me.
It is nearing 5.30am as I approach the venue to see a neat row of bodies laid along the pavement outside, like a scene at the end of a war movie. There are a few people also standing about, one of whom immediately informs me that The List is already closed. I am thunderstruck! I walk up towards the end of the line of bodies in disbelief, hoping that discovering the actual List will prove this information false, but another German friend confirms the news. There are already 30 people on The List, and it closed a little less than an hour ago. Un-fucking-believable.
I walk back up the hill to my AirBnb. I know from experience that there is unlikely to be anything to gain from queuing all day without being on The List. I will revert to my usual strategy of arriving two hours before doors. I tip toe back up the stairs, and climb back into bed, where, somewhat surprisingly, I am able to sleep for another couple of hours.
When I awake, my spirits are not too dampened by having been thwarted in my original plan. As well as a day looking around Brighton, followed by a Morrissey show to look forward to, I have a little extra card up my sleeve to add to my Plan B. Having studied the venue website some weeks prior, I am aware that there is a back door to the venue, which is apparently quieter than the main entrance at the front.
As I make toast in the kitchen, my AirBnb host alarms me by stating that he thinks the back door is not currently in use due to some building work on that street. I set off to check, and am relieved to find that the back street is in fact fully accessible, the small row of back doors to the venue are under shelter, and most importantly, nobody has yet started a queue. I phone the box office who confirm that these doors will indeed open tonight at the same time as the main doors at the front. I stroll back towards the town centre, feeling very smug, where I spend a leisurely day poking around the quirky little shops, lanes and cafes, before getting some pre-show rest back in my room.
I return to my secret entrance at around 4pm, praying to the queue Gods as I round the corner into the street, and thankful to find just a small group of Morrissey fans already there. However, it seems they are not queuing, at least I hope they are not. They are waiting for Morrissey to arrive, since the artist and crew entrance is here also. I squat down on the concrete outside the middle of the three doors, wanting to stake my place, and from here am happy to watch and wait, thinking what a bonus it would be if Morrissey were indeed to arrive now. But there is no sign of him, and eventually most people give up and wander off, I presume back round to the front entrance. Some people emerge from the multi-storey car park across the road, and ask me where the main entrance is. I point them in the right direction, failing to mention that these doors can also be used. It seems I am still the only person in possession of such information.
Of the few people remaining there is a British woman who I have met a few times previously. She is evidently aware that these doors will open, and also expresses concern that there is still no sign of Morrissey, having heard the soundcheck, from which he was evidently absent, and having been waiting here since.
Time passes, and still no queue builds, and whilst wishing to avoid the arrival of large numbers, with just over an hour until doors, I do start to feel it would be nice to share with someone what now appears to be a rather priceless piece of information. Most of my friends are already assured early entry, having made The List. However, earlier that day, a British friend on social media had messaged me to ask what time I’d be arriving, and had seemed disappointed when I filled him in on the situation. He is relatively new to Morrissey shows, so I suspect had no idea of what is involved in getting to the front. I call him, feeling this more discreet than sending a message that could be easily forwarded. Sworn to secrecy, he soon appears with his nephew, having abandoned his place in the vast queue that has formed at the front of the building, and somewhat amused by my cloak and dagger approach to proceedings, but grateful nonetheless. I tell him not to thank me yet. It all seems too good to be true – and indeed it is……
Doors are scheduled to open at 6.30pm tonight.
6.15pm. There is still no sign, through the glass doors, of any preparations taking place inside.
6.20pm. I am deeply concerned.
6.25pm. After three weeks of regularly repeated episodes of intense stress and anxiety such as this, I think I am actually going to go mad. We finally see a table being set up and some staff appearing. They are moving at glacial speed.
6.30pm. I catch a glimpse of two or three people who appear briefly at the top of the small set of stairs, headless chicken fashion, then vanish. People have started coming in from the front! I am frantic. I bang on the door in desperation, but the staff within appear oblivious. My friend tries to calm me by suggesting that this was just The List entering, since no more people can be seen.
Just at this point, the tour bus arrives, and my friend declares this must be Morrissey at last, and asks if I’m going to come to see him disembark. Glued to my spot, with my nose pressed to the glass of the door, and feeling like I am in the middle of my own tug of war, I simply cannot believe the timing of this arrival. I have never been lucky enough to see Morrissey’s arrival or departure at the venue, and he arrives right now?! I make the choice to prioritise my speed of entry to the venue, knowing he doesn’t usually stop to chat, which proves to be the case.
6.35pm. A door finally opens. I have both a paper and electronic version of my ticket ready for scanning. Neither will work. The man with the scanner takes an age trying each in turn. The dozen or so people behind me are now also becoming frantic. The venue staff continue to move at glacial speed. I am finally given the go ahead, and dash up the stairs, but once at the top there seem to be unmarked doors in every direction. “The standing area?” I snap at two people behind a food and drink stand. They shrug at me. It is fortunate that I am unarmed, or there may have been bloodshed.
When I finally enter the auditorium floor from the side, I am dismayed to see the crowd already two or three rows deep. I trot along the length behind them ready to cry with frustration and disappointment, and find myself a third row spot behind some shorter people, where I stand fuming for some time.
At length, I am pleased to find I have landed near some friendly fellow British fans who I met in Killarney, and I start to recover my equanimity. After some chat, and with everyone well established in their chosen spots, I am calm enough to employ my usual procedure of sitting down to rest on the floor, where I fiddle with my phone amongst the forest of legs. When I stand up again, during the pre-show videos, a man behind me asks me to move, as I am tall. I am unsure where he would like me to move to, and express as much to him, very much not in the mood for friendly negotiations. I know he has been there the whole time, so my presence in front of him can’t be a surprise. Does he think I should go and stand at the back, or in front of someone else?
Despite being doubly thwarted in my entry plans, Brighton turns out to be one of my favourite shows of the tour, a positive experience seemingly dependent not just on proximity to the stage, but on the behaviour of the people in my immediate vicinity. The Doncaster and Manchester shows were both somewhat marred for me by the unpleasant and unnecessary levels of pushing and jostling. But there is none of that where I am standing in Brighton, although the encore sees the usual chaos of fans making their various attempts to reach Morrissey, something I do very much enjoy. I help a young lady over the barrier who has appeared from behind, but unfortunately it is not the cleanest manoeuvre, and security have ample time to prepare for her arrival on the other side, and with Morrissey by now having moved to the other end of the stage, she has no chance. Maybe in the next world……
After the show there is an air of sadness at this being the end of the road, as familiar faces of tour followers gather on the pavement outside, but we find many happy memories and experiences to talk about in the hotel bar next door. Whilst waiting to be served, I get talking to a man with his wife who had made a last minute decision to attend tonight’s show, and is evidently very happy he did. He can’t understand why it has been so many years since he saw Morrissey. “I love Morrissey” he states, ardently, and I know he speaks for everyone here.
Adventures of a middle-aged Morrissey fan 