*Listening to Angus and Julia Stone – And The Boys EP*
Today was the day Kings of Leon tickets hit the e-shelves for their big Hyde Park gig. I say today, it was for about 10 seconds. I say hit the e-shelves, I’m not even sure they opened the doors. How do sixty-odd thousand tickets get sold so quickly? And how come I was sat here early and still got about as close to getting a ticket as Roy Keane will to Manager Of The Year? (Actually, most of Norfolk will vote for him at this rate.)
I suppose Virgin Media could take the brunt of my annoyance. When downloading iTunes again the other day it turned out it was actually quicker to walk to California, set up a meeting with Steve Jobs, tell him the iPad is pointless, set up another meeting this time with Steve Wozniak to ask for an iTunes disk and the walk back again. On my hands. Through custard. Carrying Andy Fordham.
Alas today, the internet connection seemed OK, good almost. So now who could I blame?
Twenty-five minutes of unavailable, unavailable, unavailable, the screen finally succumbed to a little red bit of text saying SOLD OUT. I got up at 8.30 for this. On a day off. And I’ve only had one coffee today.
I’ve seen them before so it’s no big deal I forced myself to believe, until the equally hopeless thought of festivals struck.
The annual trip to Latitude has been disrupted by some kind of certificate giving (hopefully), Glastonbury sold out (but doesn’t seem appealing this year anyway- barring Stevie Wonder of course) leaving me pondering Reading or V. Both of which I have a fair degree of contempt for. People seem to be there more for the fact that they can say they are there rather than who is actually on stage.
There is always the smaller ones, but they have to be worth it for me to make the long trek to a little field somewhere just outside nowhere. They’re never conveniently situated for me, are they? Constantly testing my Music-Going Resolve. Or there’s always Europe. But then costs rise, steeply. Not so much tickets-wise but everything else. Poland or a garden in Dorset or somewhere seems like a whole lot of hard work.
Not only is my gig-going future bleak, my festival one is even worse.
Oh and I didn’t watch The Shit Awards, nor do I know who won anything. I imagine they were all a few thousand feet off the mark. And then some.