This evening I met up with some old friends at the pub. I have not seen some of them very much of over the last seven or eight years, yet fourteen years ago this particular collection of people would have often been spotted together round a table of a Saturday night. Inevitably we have all moved on since then, and nowadays most of them have family commitments. I must confess I became overwhelmed with by an indulgent epiphany. I know it is a cliché to mention, but it feels strange that we have aged. Glancing round the table, I noticed how flabby our faces had become, how far our hairlines had receeded and our guts expanded. Back then, we talked about football, pop music and drunken incidents from the previous week. Nowadays we seemed to talk about work, houses or wives and children. In fact as if to emphasise how much older we’d become, one of them even talked about a hip operation he was due, which is the type of aged conversation we would never have even anticipated entering the agenda all those years ago. It suppose it seemed particularly poignant because at least four of those six decaying faces were the same ones who had taken me to my first ever concert in 1993. I was only a mid-teenager back then and what an experience it had been. I remember how much I’d been looking forward to the show for months beforehand. Then the day finally arrived and I hurried into the venue, heading straight over to the merchandise stand to buy myself a t-shirt (most of which were too expensive for my paperboy’s wage, but thankfully they were selling some left-over cheaply that had last year’s tour dates printed on the back). I remember my friends stood in the bar ordering pints. At the time they were old enough, but I was still too young to drink (of course when I say drink, I specifically mean alcohol. I was allowed other liquids, and in fact have found them rather necessary in order for survival.) I remember the anticipation I felt whilst standing in the midst of the tight crowd waiting for the band to come on, trying to slip my precious new discount t-shirt over the top of my other clothing since it seemed the easiest way to ‘carry’ it. I distinctly remember the struggle, trying to peel it over by other layers of clothing in a desperate search to find the arm-hole; then when I eventually located it, I pushed my arm through it with such vigor, I ended up punching the person next to me in the face. I remember the profuse level of apologies leaving my mouth as I secretly prayed to myself that I hadn’t inadvertently started a fight, (particularly as I only still had one arm in a sleeve so felt too vulnerable protect myself). I remember trying to get my other arm in and then accidentally punching someone else in the face on the other side and following that with a similar ritual of apology (though at least I would be in a better equipped to shield myself this time should any attacks have happened). I remember trying to scramble towards the front and the atmosphere when the band finally took to the stage. I remember the volume of the PA. I remember the big lights. I remember all the sweat (I was wearing three layers after all). I remember the adrenalin of the crowd surge. Yes - that first surge you get near the front of a gig crowd was truly thrilling, and if I’m honest, a little bit frightening too. It was like a strange loss of control, as the tide of people pulled me from left to right. Maybe it was the fear that made it so thrilling, but I do also genuinely remember spending the first five minutes apologizing to the people around me for treading on their toes. But no-body seemed to care. In fact, they were treading all over my feet too, without the slightest hint of concern. I know it now seems weird and sad that I stood there trying to apologise in the middle of a ‘mosh pit’, but you have to remember I was virginal at the time (to concerts I mean, although the more authentic use of the word would also have been just as appropriate).
Nevertheless I clearly must have enjoyed myself because after that night I used to don my paper bag to brave the wind and the rain or stand elbow-deep in a greasy washing up bowl, driven by the glimmer of hope from the next concert ticket I could afford. It seemed like a time of such simple dreams. Fast forward to now, and ironically I am working at that very same concert hall. But rather than saving money to spend my leisure time there, it is now my job to be there, and by default I cannot wait for the working day to finish so I can leave the place. Strange how things turn out.
So as we sat around the table together, it felt weird how lives had changed. For starters we were now all old enough to drink. We all had different concerns now, and the passage of time has subdued us. We would certainly not be going to a concert or a nightclub afterwards either. Our hips just couldn’t take all that pushing and shoving nowadays. And the most depressing thing about it is that for one of our party, this is actually a genuine statement, completely devoid of irony.
