dave202 wrote:I had the most tumultuous attendance at that gig and would love to hear it again. Mind you, that was the most sane part of it.
I’d bought two tickets for the gig ages in advance and was planning to take my step son with me. However, as we looked into getting from Dundee to Glasgow in time, he couldn’t make it. Getting back was going to be a problem too, as the last train from Glasgow stopped at Perth. I booked a plush taxi from a firm in the Yellow Pages the night before and everything was looking good. Then I looked for my ticket.
“Where’s the envelope with my ticket?” I asked my wife. “It must be there,” she replied before adding, “I didn’t throw it out.” What she really meant was she had. I turned the house upside down, shook it every which way and still no ticket dropped out. About the only words said after that were when I phoned to cancel the taxi.
She used to give me lift and drop me off at my work, and the following morning the journey was in silence. I sat in my departmental base really pissed off when the phone rang. She’d found that you could still book a ticket and pick it up at Barrowlands. I told her to do it, which she did and then called back with the arrangements. I phoned the taxi firm and the words were along the lines of… you know the taxi I booked last night and then cancelled a few hours later? Is it still available?
The train to Glasgow was packed. Not so much standing room only as squeezing room only. One doddery old wifie had a cat in a basket taking up a seat and wouldn’t move it. Not that it would have done much good, but in my mood…
I went to a pub in Glasgow which was alright I thought. What was unusual was a bloke standing at the bar, beside the sink for washing glasses – he looked down and out, homeless at a guess, and the appearance would have had him refused more often than not. In front of him he had two pint glasses, one lager and the other murky. As the bar staff collected empties and put them on the bar beside him, he tipped the dregs into one or other of the glasses. Lager went in the obvious one, but I saw Guinness, Heavy and two for the price of one alcopops going into the other. Nobody batted an eyelid.
I made my way to the Barras, got my ticket, and saw the crowd was made up 50% of blokes my age, and the rest seemed to be their kids. It had been 11 years since seeing the Rock Against The Rich gig there, and about 15 since Clash II. I was in my element, yet loads of punters seemed to be complaining that Joe was playing the soundtrack to my life. Somebody muttered that he’d probably play ‘Keys To Your Heart’ next, and I crossed my fingers.
After ‘Bankrobber’ had closed the set I had to dash to make that last train. With seconds to spare, I jumped on and found a seat. The train didn’t move. Within a few minutes my carriage was full of kids coming from seeing Ocean Colour Scene at the SECC, and then came the announcement that the train had been delayed as they didn’t have a driver. Cue hundreds of kids screaming, “I want to be a train driver.” As if these silly tossers with their daft hats and sunglasses on weren’t bad enough, I had an insurance salesman from Stirling sitting next to me. When he asked what I did I should have said “time” or made something up, instead of which I said I taught maths and then had the rest of our enforced time together hearing how he was useless at maths at school, teachers never taught you properly, he was brilliant at it now,…
Eventually they found a driver and the train moved off. We hit Perth eventually about half an hour late, and three taxis were at the station. I asked if any were from the company I’d booked, and the answer was resounding “No”. The bastards hadn’t turned up. I couldn’t find a phone book to get their number and was stuck in a freezing train station at half one in the morning, twenty odd miles from home. I tried the phone to call my wife and it was out of order. I almost cried.
At that moment the first of the taxis which had been there returned. The driver said that he thought I might be stranded and had come back on the off chance. I told him how much I’d been quoted for the ride to Dundee and he said he’s do it for the same price. Brilliant! As we approached the outskirts he warned me that he only knew three roads in the city – the Kingsway, Old Glamis Road which comes off of it, and Clepington Road which it connects with. The only three roads he needed to know as the led almost to my door.
That was the gig for me. Losing ticket, getting ticket, booking taxi, cancelling taxi, rebooking and getting stranded, customer from another world and a driverless train. Oh, and a concert full of great music.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” she asked when I got in. We got divorced later, but that wasn't the reason.