A confused Millennial tries to… watch a gig without filming it

By Josh Gardner, who needs at least three screens running to feel alive

NOT everything is on the internet. Some content, like plays and non-league football games, only happen once and then they’re gone forever. That’s criminal. 

To fight this dystopian future where stuff happens that can’t be Googled I record all the gigs I go to on my phone. For posterity, by which I mean my Instagram story.

If you’ve not heard of a gig, they’re like live versions of Coachella. Except you can only listen to one artist, you have no control over what they play, and the sound quality is lo-fi through the air instead of earbuds. They’re kind of terrible actually.

And people there – old dudes – get pissed off with phones, of all things? Saying shit like ‘try living in the moment, shithead’, or ‘put your f**king phone away you’re ruining it for everyone else.’ And that’s just the performers.

Their verbal abuse makes it sound so easy. Could I really put my phone in my pocket and watch a gig with my eyes? I don’t even know if they’re capable of 1080p. Hours of watching YouTube in my bed in the dark has f**ked them up.

I approached it like a shit prank dressed up as a social experiment. Beginning by warning my friends I wouldn’t be posting for 90 minutes but wasn’t dead, I went to a gig by an act that hasn’t even blown up on TikTok.

They started playing. I couldn’t pinch and zoom. It was good, but I was incapable of telling anyone. Panicking, I instinctively began to take pictures by jabbing the air. My hands, freed from their technological master, were flustered.

Slowly, without a phone, they began to relax out of their claw-like natural grip they’ve been in for ten years. With nothing better to do my arms idly flapped at my side like fleshy windsocks. It was traumatising. Is this living in the moment? It’s hell.

All around me, the gig was being filmed. Faces lit up with joy as they captured an event as it was meant to be, firing off crowd selfies. I could feel my synapses shutting down as I went into device withdrawal.

Sweating, gasping, I fumbled for my phone and pointed it at the band. I’d only missed 90 seconds of the opening song, which steadied my nerves. Thank God I came to my senses and could document it for my 500 followers.

What band was it? Not sure. I’ll Google it later.

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Your astrological week ahead for May 18th, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

Can anybody recommend a good cat exorcist in the Carlisle area? Must be available evenings and weekends. Reasonably priced only, it’s not like it’s urgent.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

Mm, this cream horn really is exquisite. What? It’s your cock? Not again, Dalton!

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

If at first you don’t succeed, try and try again. Sooner or later you’ll get through to some thick twat who believes you’re HSBC’s fraud team.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

Have I told you lately that I loathe you?

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

Sartre was wrong. Hell isn’t other people – it’s a Caffè Nero toilet at a city centre train station.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

It’s big news in the football this weekend! Will a team win, or will another team lose? And what does this mean for the colours red, blue, and lighter blue?

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

Revenge is a dish best served with locally sourced, seasonal vegetables and paired with a New World Riesling.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

F**k the police! Blow the security guard! Wank off the lollipop man!

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

Oh, you’ve built your major European city around a mighty river? So f**king imaginative, never seen that before.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

I like my women like I like my coffee. As somewhere to insert my penis.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

This week, a magician will ask if that’s your card and, even more worryingly, if that’s your PIN.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

Fine, alright, I won’t go breaking your heart. F**king Elton John and his demanding attitude.