I promised this last night. So here it is. It’s a bit sweary so sorry if you don’t like swearing.
I’ve been to quite a considerable amount of gigs in my adult life and last night was the latest of such jaunts as Lisa & I went to see Kate Nash at the Guildhall in Gloucester. It was an enjoyable evening’s entertainment. I like Kate Nash. I know it’s not cool, but I do.
However, something happens to me at gigs and last night was no exception. I attract twats. If it hadn’t happened to me before last night I may have been inclined to go into quite a considerable rant about the people of Gloucester. But I won’t as it has and they still seem to be struggling with evolution. And I wouldn’t want them to come charging out of their caves all grunty and shouty at me.
To the left of us was a group of 40 something’s – on day release I presume – who took it upon themselves to talk loudly throughout the gig, dance like they had CJD – barging into whomever was nearby (us) – and supplied us with such witticisms as “get your tits out”. To the right we had “your bass player is well fit” man and behind us was a chap that was that annoyed with the lack of music for all of 45 seconds he took it upon himself to shout “bollocks. Play a fucking song”. He’d been promised music; so he wanted music. That’s the standard of people we were dealing with.
I’d be able to pass off such an experience had it been isolated. But sadly not, it seems to happen to me a lot. It’s like I have a big arrow above my head (visible to the twats) that dictates to them “if you’re over 6ft 4, are drunk and a complete twat – please stand next to this chap.”
I have memories of the 2 smokers stood beside us at the Wombats in London – one of which puked up into his pint glass. There’s rubby sweaty pilled up dancer man at the Courteeners in Birmingham. The 7ft behemoth whilst watching the Coral at Glastonbury. Peter Crouch and the Inbetweeners at the Drums. Shouting student cretins at Mumford & Sons in Wolverhampton. I could go on. But I won’t. It’s the inevitability of it that lets me down. Perhaps I should just stop going to gigs. Or just get pissed and become a twat.
Tom Benjamin's Blog 
Note to self: wear super-padded bra and stilts to next gig. My left boob is still painfully bruised from the 6ft 4 elbow wielding CJD patient.
It’s not just you mate. Watching Pearl Jam at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire in 2008 was one of the highlights of my gig going life.
But Ronnie Wood’s guest appearance was spoilt by a trendy girl stood near us, who clearly had no idea what she was(n’t) watching. She spent the entire song shouting at her mate.
I mean, jeez, you’ve got Pearl Jam and a Rolling Stone on stage in a tiny venue, playing a Bob Dylan cover, and there’s someone in the venue who’s not listening? She should’ve been ashamed of herself. And kicked out.