The Last Day of Term – a guest post by Nige Pierce

As a Primary school teacher, the final day of term is one full of mixed emotions; relief at getting to another end of year relatively intact both mentally and physically, exhaustion and pride having guided 34 young souls through the trials and tribulations of maths, English, science et al, and excitement at what the next six weeks’ break would conjure up. I had Morrissey gigs. All of them.

In Leicestershire, where I live and work, the schools break up earlier than most; some throwback to the industrial age when the factories would close down for, “July Fortnight” and everyone would transport themselves to the east coast to soak up the Norfolk sun. And so it was that my last day of term rather beautifully coincided with Morrissey’s outdoor gig in Leeds Millennium Square.

Usually I hang around after the last day of school, saying goodbye to parents and children, thanking them for their thoughtful presents (being a non-alcohol drinking vegan can really test the gift buying abilities of some parents but I can never have enough Morrissey mugs and Etsy purchased pictures.) and wishing my colleagues a great summer. Not this time though. A quick change into a most exuberant flowery shirt and “Paul Staveley “ jacket (more of him later) and I was flying up the M1, the sound of newly acquired Morrissey mugs clinking merrily on the back seat.

I parked rather marvellously close by and made my way to one of the entrances to the Square. I quickly made my way through, ignoring the food and drink stalls and positioned myself as close as I could. Six rows back was good enough given I was in Leicestershire only two hours ago.

I waved to friends in the crowd as we waited in the early evening sun. I love how you can go alone to a Morrissey gig and you’ll meet someone you know, or make new friends with the people around you. Such a thing happened with a lovely group of youngsters. Nia, Conrad, Jasmine…your enthusiasm was infectious. For some it was their first Morrissey gig. The anticipation etched into their smiling faces was so touching. It still blows me away that Morrissey gigs are attended by every age, and tonight was no exception.

The Lottery Winners were great. Loved their set, their enthusiasm and their obvious delight in opening for their musical hero. “Letter to Myself” was a rallying call to all those who felt they didn’t fit in at school and a reassuring message that it is going to be okay. A week later I would meet Thom Rylance at the Liverpool Empire gig and I thanked him for a great evening.

The Slow Readers Club I could’ve done without. Not through any disdain for their music, simply I was getting restless to see The Man Himself. And then…

As he swaggered onstage, the love for him washed over the crowd and he delivered a set of epic proportions. The youngsters were enthralled, the old guard equally swept along as we sang along in unison with the man who has meant so much for so long to so many. He was on great form. His voice has never sounded better.

And so to the encore. Morrissey momentarily exited the stage only to return wearing a, “Johnny Morrissey” t-shirt, replacing the sharp pale blue shirt he had worn for the gig. Sweet and tender hooligan. etc.etc.etc.etc…He whips off the yellow shirt, suggestively rubs it over his torso and casually tosses it into the Leeds night sky.

Everything. Slows. Down.

The yellow t-shirt, glowing like the sun, arced its way over the crowd. In a split second, I deduced that it was coming my way; surely not? I leapt. Some say like a salmon, others like a gazelle. I reached out a desperate paw and unbelievably the t-shirt that had only seconds before been on the back of my hero was now in my hand. As I landed, I crumpled to the floor and instantly shoved the treasured item down my shirt. Friends Elisabeth and Ian hugged me in a vice like grip to protect me from the circling vultures as we crab-shuffled away from the crowds. My mind was racing. I had caught the whole thing. THE WHOLE THING! I didn’t dare retrieve it from under my shirt to look at. The young fans I had stood with earlier were ecstatic for me, strangers were patting me on the back, friends congratulated me for they knew just how much it meant.

I phoned my wife, Kyle. She didn’t understand a word I was gabbling. I phoned my gig wife, Sally. She didn’t really hear much of what I was saying in my delirium. I bumped into Paul Staveley who told me he would be at my house early the next day to paint something. I didn’t understand him. (Turns out he was commissioned to paint a giant octopus on my garden wall for my birthday!)

In the aftermath of the gig, I rescued the shirt from my trousers (I had relocated it from under my shirt to a “safer” place!) and posed for photos with Moz friends. I don’t know how I drove home. I was so electrified with what sat next to me on the passenger seat. It smelt divine. AND. IT. WAS. SIGNED. He had written on it references to the 70s sitcom Queenie’s Castle set in Leeds starring Diana Dors. “Quarry Hill Flats 1970, Queenie Bunny Douglas Raymond Leeds 2023” Instantly my most treasured possession.

I did every other Morrissey gig over the summer and got a handshake in Liverpool. I also got three broken ribs and fell asleep on the hop on hop off bus in Dublin but they are other stories for another time.

Of course the t-shirt is framed. No, it’s not for sale. Yes, I did wear it.

As last days of terms go, I don’t think I’ll be able to top it.