A step-by-step guide to pretending to enjoy a gig

AFTER 18 months without live music, gigs have resumed but many people may have forgotten how to pretend that’s a good thing. Follow this guide: 

Step one: With a sinking feeling, you realise that gig you said you’d have your mate’s spare ticket for is this week. You don’t want to go but are obligated, and it’s a night out and you’ve barely left the house since your nan’s 80th in August.

Step two: You listen to the band’s albums on repeat on the day of the gig so as not to look like a total bellend when surrounded by hardcore fans later that night.

Step three: You come to the conclusion they’re not very good but it’s too late now, and a free night out is a free night out.

Step four: You arrive at the gig to discover your mate wants a tenner for the ticket and for you to buy the first round, which is £14 for two pints of lukewarm piss-smelling lager in a plastic glass. Your nan’s 80th isn’t looking so bad now.

Step five: You forgot that bands have support acts. Many incredible bands started as support acts. You don’t know how because every support act you’ve ever seen is bollocks.

Step six: You decide where to stand: crushed at the front with the superfans where you can see something, or at the back behind a sea of upheld mobiles next to someone trying to get the lead singer’s attention by screaming non-stop.

Step seven: The gig begins. You listen to the music you don’t like and drink the lager you can’t afford while you’re occasionally showered with liquid from behind. It’s probably just lager but there are loud guitars so it could be urine. You’re again reminded of your nan’s 80th.

Step eight: Following the band’s only good song, the gig ends. You leave, deciding you’re too old for this shit and would rather be home in bed. You vow never to go to another gig.

Step nine: Your mate gets in touch and has a spare gig ticket. Why not? It’s a free night out.

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Teenager has devastating realisation she will one day be middle-aged prick

A TEENAGE girl is reeling from the bombshell that she will get old and become an arsehole just like her parents. 

15-year-old Lucy Parry, who is painfully aware that every previous generation has been a bunch of dickheads and only she and her peers can save the world, came to the realisation while telling her younger brothers to pick up their trainers.

She said: “I tripped up over their f**king Nike Air and screamed at them to get off f**king Fortnite and put them on the shoe rack now, then I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. It was chilling.

“I ran upstairs, leaving all the lights on and putting a mug down without a coaster, but even that couldn’t shake this feeling that something had shifted. That somewhere within me was the boring old twat I would inevitably become.

“No matter how loud I blasted Lil Nas X or how many wet towels I left on the floor, I was haunted by thoughts like ‘nobody respects order in this house’ or ‘who has to tidy it up? Bloody muggins here’.

“What’s next – choosing clothes for practical purposes? Getting excited by nifty storage solutions? Saying ‘I’m sure Corbyn’s marvellous, but if interest rates go up we’ll lose the house’?

“When my dad would say ‘you’ll be our age one day you know’, I thought it was some sort of sick joke. Now I’m not so sure.”