I’ve had some crazy moments on my Morrissey adventures over the years. These include, amongst other things, crowd-surfing over the barrier from a dozen or more rows back, sneaking into Wembley arena before opening time, and being collected by ambulance from the runway of Leeds Bradford airport. But Hammersmith 2023 sees me embark on what for me is a new craziness– camping overnight under the Hammersmith flyover. Actually, for many Morrissey fans, this is a perfectly normal thing to do.
Hammersmith Apollo holds some very special memories for me, the 2015 show I attended being one of my favourite Morrissey shows to date, so I am very excited to return, and with no commitments to prevent an arrival on the day before the show, I am determined to join the early queuers to give myself the best chance of a spot at the front. This, I had originally assumed, would involve an arrival in the early hours of Sunday morning. Say, 5am. Or maybe 4am, given my experience in Brighton. Actually, maybe I should aim for 2 – 3am, just to be sure….I’ll try to get an early night…..
Following my experience of early queuing in Paris, I have a little more idea of what equipment I need, and with Hammersmith being only a straightforward train and tube ride away, there is no reason why I shouldn’t upsize my luggage to accommodate said equipment. Accordingly, I leave home on Saturday dragging a much larger suitcase than usual with one hand, and carrying in the other hand my trusty little back support chair that won’t quite fit in the suitcase, but I deem to be essential nonetheless.
I have been messaging some friends, and looking up nearby restaurants, but sitting on the tube between Kings Cross and Hammersmith, I am somewhat dumbfounded to come across a photo of The List, shared on social media, with numbers already in the teens. It is 4.30pm. Wtf?!
I wonder, just for a fleeting moment, if I should abandon my early queuing plans and admit defeat, but l look at my large suitcase, and I know my mind is already at the point of no return.
I emerge from Hammersmith tube station, and instead of heading straight for my AirBnb, as was the original plan, I head directly for the venue, where I quickly discover a sizeable collection of Morrissey fans grouped together across the road under the flyover. I promptly add my name to The List. It is 26 hours until doors.
My AirBnb room, a five minute walk away, is larger than I expected, with a nice comfortable bed. What a pity I won’t be sleeping in it. Instead, I dump my stuff on it, hurriedly sorting out what I need and don’t need for the night, before returning swiftly to the flyover. Many fans are already enjoying drinks, others appear with newly purchased cushions and chairs from a nearby Ikea.
My evening meal plans have been derailed, and my Australian friend also mentions a need to eat, so we head off together in search of food from the many nearby outlets. She assumes we will be buying a takeaway, but I tell her I have a much better plan, and lead her into a nearby Wetherspoons pub, where we can enjoy being comfortably seated in the heated indoors. I use my Wetherspoons app to order food and drink, assuring her that it will arrive quickly, which it does. She is impressed, and we wolf down our veggie burgers, wash them down with Corona, and scuttle back to the flyover within a very respectable amount of time, much pleased with ourselves.
The nearest toilet, in a small shopping arcade, closes at 11pm, we are told. It is next to a small Tesco, where we purchase drinks, and enjoy them from our seats under the flyover, gazing across at the venue. At around 10.30pm crowds start to pour out, and we wonder if we will soon be able to take up residence in the doorways of the building.
As the last of the crowds vanish into the night, a couple of staff members emerge with a ladder and a collection of large letters. We can see one of them is the letter M, and watch with delighted excitement as tonight’s show title is removed, and quickly replaced with bold red letters against fluorescent white – MORRISSEY. The final letter goes up to cheers and applause as we stand just on the other side of the barriers, drinks and phones in hands, capturing the first photos of what is to us a magnificent sight. This is what we’re all here for. 20 hours to go……
The venue remains barricaded however, and we remain huddled in a group under the flyover, our home for the night. It is getting on for 1am by the time I decide to choose a spot to unroll my camping gear. The sound of traffic and chatter fades into the background as I position some earplugs, and pulling my Morrissey hat down over my eyes, to block out the lights from the flyover roof, I manage a respectable 4 hours or so of sleep, tucked up in my sleeping bag, warm but somewhat uncomfortable on my camping mat. I awake to some exclamations of surprise from an early passer-by, at what must be a rather unusual sight – there are over 30 of us camping here – before managing to drift off again until around 7am.
It is now the coldest part of our queue-a-thon, and reluctant to emerge from my warm cocoon, I manage to transfer myself safe inside it, from camping mat to chair, where I sit eating a banana and staring again at the venue across the road, somewhat shell shocked. I have made it through the night, and am surely now on the home straight, with 12 hours to go until doors.
The early morning brings more Morrissey barrier hopefuls, disappointed to find that despite the early hour, they are already too late for a realistic chance. I am reunited with several more friends of various nationalities, who have come by to hang around and chat regardless. But by early afternoon, I am growing decidedly weary of the situation, and with an onslaught of back pain threatening, I judge it best to return to a horizontal position. I disappear into my sleeping bag, amongst the chattering crowd, and surprise myself by drifting off for a good hour, after which I awaken feeling much refreshed, and ready to start thinking about final preparations for doors.
My husband has by now arrived in London and moved all my stuff from my AirBnb into a nearby hotel. I pack up my camping gear and carry it there, surprised to find we have an impressively large corner room on the top floor of a tower block, with an equally impressive view. This is most unusual for us, and it is as if the hotel staff are somehow aware that I have spent the previous night sleeping under a flyover, and have rewarded me with a free upgrade. But with no time to linger to enjoy it, I soon depart again with nothing in my possession this time but my ticket, phone, and small snack that I manage to sneak into every show.
When I arrive back at the venue I find our flyover home abandoned, piles of Ikea cushions and a few folded chairs now the only evidence of us having occupied this space for 24 hours. A large queue now snakes around between barriers outside the venue. I can see my overnight friends at the front, signalling to me the direction I should take to join them. Showing the large number 19 written in black marker on the back of my hand seems to have the desired effect on a security guard, who parts the barrier to let me through.
We stand waiting, full of nerves and excitement in equal measure, seeing off any would-be intruders, and shuffling into our numbered order as 7pm approaches so painfully slowly. We are reassured by security that the first 30 queuers will be admitted first, with a suitable pause before the eager hordes behind us are allowed to proceed, but are instructed to use all available doors. This proves chaotic, as anticipated, with myself and some Canadian friends unluckily choosing a door that doesn’t appear to be opening, a statuesque security guard staring blankly at us from within, until we rush to choose an alternative. I fly through the metal detector and scanners unhindered and am quickly home free to enter the auditorium and catch my first sight of the barrier at the bottom of the sloping floor. It appears impossibly full already, and as I run towards it, my flight briefly interrupted by the arm of a security guard, I can see my Canadian friend already positioned, on Alain’s side, with both arms spread out. I know perfectly well that he is not saving a spot for me, but seeing no other option, I run towards him in blind panic, and manage to slot myself in on his right. His partner slams against the barrier on his left a few moments later, and we stand shaking, breathless, and cursing every venue with multiple doors that ever hosted a Morrissey show.
And yet, here we are, finally! This is what it’s all been for. We are all three rewarded with handshakes just two songs into the set. The atmosphere in the Apollo is immense, the crowd responding with raucous passion. The Morrissey chant, at which UK audiences excel, is as loud and extended as I’ve ever heard, and it is a joy to witness up close Morrissey soaking up the love and appreciation that he so much deserves. Everyday Is Like Sunday holds a special magic for me. I know the exact point in the song at which I shook Morrissey’s hand for the first time in this very building nearly 8 years ago. And here I am again; still running round. The encore, just like then, brings a chaos of desperate bodies, pressing forwards, hurdling, tumbling, all with an urgent need to somehow reach and connect with the great man. We are so very privileged to be here, in the presence of such a great artist, and we know it, and show it!
Back outside the venue I am simply buzzing with what has been the best of the three shows I have attended this month. I retrieve my trusty little chair from a nearby hedge, and am carried along with the crowd towards the bar that holds the after-show party. However, when I see the queue to enter, I turn on my heel and enter last night’s Wetherspoons pub, where I make a beeline for the nearest table, and sit ordering food and drink from my phone, declaring that I do not wish to participate in another queue for a very long time, nor do I intend to move off my backside again tonight, other than to drag myself back to the hotel. Exhausted but very happy, I am joined by sufficient numbers of friends to dispel any fear of missing out, and I look out at the city lights from my hotel window later that night, with the satisfaction of knowing that I have squeezed every inch I could out of this weekend, and made the very most of another treasured Morrissey show.
Adventures of a middle-aged Morrissey fan 