“I’m accused of always saying too much, but dear God, there are enough people who say nothing. Surely at least one of us can be allowed to speak freely? Feelings, I think, are much deeper than expressions, and all of us carry a terrible loneliness within us, and life is a pigsty because we all – without exception – end our lives in tears. Very few people die in a fit of hysterics on a Ferris Wheel.”
– Morrissey, 2014
No stranger to the conviction that life is, as Morrissey puts it, in his own blunt way, a pigsty, it is no surprise to me, but no less painful as a result, to discover in my mid-life years, that just when I thought I was well acquainted with and duly resigned to this fact, things prove capable of becoming a whole lot worse, and I am presented with new torments, the pain and horror of which I have no idea how I will bear. With no end in sight, and the storm only gathering force, I take refuge in the world of tour life, running from a monster that I know will be waiting for me on my return, like a fox escaping the chase down a badger sett.
It is in this state of mind that I arrive in Paris, the night before the first of two shows. Gasping, dying, but somehow still alive. I drag my small suitcase through the Paris streets for some distance, racing against the approaching darkness, but still preferring to walk, my confidence in my ability to navigate foreign transport systems having been knocked by my experience in Cologne, three years ago.
I arrive in the correct street, but in the darkness have some difficulty locating the correct door, entering my AirBnb code into the wrong entry system, perplexed, until eventually striking lucky, I enter a dark hall, and shine my phone torch to identify the mailbox that contains the keys to my room.
Determined not to spend my first night in Paris alone, I shortly re-emerge, and navigate my way through the streets once more, to meet an American friend for a much needed beer. Exhausted, I cave in and order an Uber for the return. When it arrives, I open the driver’s door to get in, and we stare at each other in mutual surprise and confusion for a moment, until I remember that I am on foreign soil, and move to the correct side of the vehicle, apologising.
My plan is to arrive at the venue early in the morning to join The List of early queuers, although it is alarmingly late by the time I am tucked up in my single bed, and when I awake at 4am I can hear rain falling heavily outside. I have a message from a friend, received around 2am, warning me that there are already about 14 people queuing. I lie in bed for a moment, listening to the rain, and rolling my eyes at the shit I know I am still prepared to put myself through, before reluctantly springing into action, and ordering another Uber.
I huddle in various doorways, borrowing various bedding from overnight campers, as one by one they awake and emerge in search of food and toilet facilities. I am reunited, in the cold, damp dawn, with friends from all over the world, and as day breaks, time passes surprisingly quickly as we move between the different doorways, mingling and chattering.
Eventually, we are given wristbands, and told to return at 4.30pm. I find my way back to my room, a twenty minute walk away, and enjoy a much needed two hour nap.
On returning to the venue, there are of course many more arrivals, some familiar faces, others not, and when the wristbanded early queuers start organising themselves into a line in numbered order, there are angry objections from some of the newcomers, unfamiliar with this system, and disappointed to discover that they may not, in fact, be first in line. No amount of calm attempts to explain the situation to them will appease them, and the atmosphere quickly becomes tense, confrontational, and downright stressful. I take some deep breaths, resisting any passing temptations to get involved in any fruitless discussions, but stand in line beneath my umbrella, since the angry mob are refusing to move out of the doorways.
We stand in this way for two hours, glaring at each other, with the rain pouring heavily down. I take a few seated breaks in a nearby bus shelter, and as the time for doors approaches, so my anxiety levels reach an unbearable peak. We are not entirely assured of early entry, and now finding ourselves positioned some way back from the multiple doors, the situation is truly a queuing Morrissey fan’s nightmare, and as we enter the agonising final ten minutes, I feel physically sick. But at the very last minute, the tour manager, our ally, appears within, and somehow manages to carefully open just one door, to enable the wristbanded line to start to enter in single file. There are angry shouts of objection from the mob, and I am inwardly screaming to get safely inside, expressing a heartfelt thanks to the tour manager as I enter and patiently proceed through search and scan, before being given the go ahead. I am now fired like a bullet, and following the direction of those ahead of me, I clamber up two flights of stairs to enter the auditorium on Gustavo’s side, where I take a place on the barrier next to an American friend, shaking with adrenalin, and declaring this to have been the most stressful entry experience ever. (apparently I always say this).
(photo by Claudia)
Upon seeing Morrissey again, my bruised heart is comforted. It is only five months since I saw him last, a relatively short time for me, and yet in my present state it feels much longer. His tangible presence is somehow a great relief. He knows, he knows. And feeling that there is someone there who just knows, is of great comfort, whether it stems from something imaginary or delusional, the comfort is real nevertheless, and I spend the first few songs blinking tears away, as the buried pain that I have pushed deep down is in danger of breaking through and enveloping me. When Morrissey comes near I reach out my hand. Is he a little too far away? But he sees me and kneels down at the edge of the stage to link fingers with me. It seems to me so reassuring, as if he can sense my pain.
I have shaken Morrissey’s hand several times now, but it has never before felt so emotional, and when the next day, sitting again in the doorway of the venue, a kind French lady shows me some photos she has taken of the encounter, I burst into tears afresh, alarming her with my fragility.
On emerging from the venue after the show, it immediately becomes apparent that the queue for the next night has already started, and as I sit in the bar across the road with friends, we watch the sleeping bags gather as we order more drinks, and I decide that tomorrow will bring a lie in followed by a day’s sight-seeing in Paris.
When I finally leave the bar, I pass the venue and am informed that The List is at 18…..
I awake with a pounding headache. Messages. The List is at 26. Pain killers. More sleep. List is at 29, and will be closed at 30. Fuck.
I emerge dishevelled from an Uber and write my name on The List at number 30, before sitting in a doorway to eat some breakfast from my backpack. An Italian couple arrive just a minute behind me, and I feel for them, having been in this position in Brighton last year.
At length, I take a short walk to the Arc de Triomphe, just around the corner. It feels somewhat surreal to find myself in a world class tourist destination, and yet fixated on one attraction only – Morrissey – and nothing else matters.
On returning, I find there is some considerable discussion taking place as to our game plan for the day. We are again not entirely assured of early entry, and as such, to try to ward off a repeat of last night’s events, we decide to split into five groups of six, with six people occupying each of the five doorways. Being number 30, I like this plan, very much preferring to remain close to a door, rather than finding myself at the end of a long line some distance down the street. In our groups of six, we take turns to go for comfort breaks, until wristbands finally arrive, late in the day, and we are free to assume things will work in the same way as the previous night.
There now isn’t time enough to return to my room, however, so instead I walk to a bridge that I think will be the nearest point at which I can be afforded a view of the Eiffel Tower, which I have not yet seen, and take some quick snaps before scurrying back to the venue.
At 7pm, I arrive breathless at the top of the stairs once again, and take up an almost identical barrier spot to that of the previous night, where Morrissey again reaches out and squeezes the tips of my fingers, a few songs into the set. The unlucky Italian couple are standing with me, one of them behind, and one on the barrier to my right, and when Morrissey disappears into the fog at the end of Jack the Ripper, I offer the lady behind me my barrier spot for the encore, which she takes gratefully, utilising her new position to make some valiant attempts to receive a handshake.
After the show, I join some friends in a nearby hotel bar, where we are told the band are staying, and sure enough, a few of them later appear, Brendan Buckley and Alain Whyte stopping to oblige fans with some chat and photo opportunities. I hover on the periphery, but Alain steps forward and holds out his hand to me. “We meet again”, he says, and I shake his hand, impressed that he remembers me from Killarney airport. I tell him we’re very much looking forward to hearing some of the new Alain songs, which I have noted from the track list of the newly recorded album.
After more drinks, we emerge again into the Paris night. I pass the venue with an Australian friend, on our way back to our respective rooms. It looks deserted and lonely without anyone camping in the doorways, but will now always hold fond memories for both of us.
Adventures of a middle-aged Morrissey fan 