He couldn’t believe it when he heard,
the rock band of his teens,
his favourite 90’s band,
were back together for a come-back gig.
As soon as the concert was announced
everyone was suddenly a massive fan
of the 90’s rock band,
despite most not being born at the time,
people he had known for years
were suddenly declaring they
had always loved the band
and couldn’t wait to go and see them,
despite never having mentioned them before.
The gig was the hottest ticket in town,
the event even made the news headlines,
music reporters were dispatched to Manchester
for the latest on the scoop.
He dug out his vinyl collection and record player,
listening to the classic albums
of the great band in their prime.
All that week as he listened to his records
he hoped, imagined and prayed.
Maybe, just maybe.
Not that anyone needed reminding,
but tickets would be going on sale on Saturday morning.
Even the TV forecasters when detailing weekend weather,
wished fans good luck getting tickets.
At nine o’clock on Saturday morning,
rather than having a lie-in,
he was at the kitchen table,
laptop computer booted up and ready.
At first he thought the long number displayed
was a telephone number to call for tickets,
then he realised, that was his position in the queue.
As he waited and waited, the number counting down
as slowly as the weeks to his summer holiday,
the hours dragging by, the figure slowly ticking,
he scrolled through social media posts,
endless smug posts of screen-shots,
Congratulations you have tickets.
Then it happened, the computer screen changed from listing
his place in the queue to detailing the tickets available.
This was it. He could select his ticket. He was going.
He was in. He would be seeing the band.
He stared for a moment. The only tickets left
were ‘deluxe’ and cost £500 each,
excluding booking fee, of course.
The website didn’t say exactly what was deluxe
about the tickets, apart from the price.
He stared and stared at the screen,
not wanting to shut it down,
to admit defeat,
but unable to fork out what was more
than his monthly mortgage payment
for a one-night concert.
The screen then changed, updated,
making the decision for him,
‘Event Sold Out’ displayed in bold letters.
As he switched his computer off
one of his friends, a branch manager at their firm,
messaged to gloat that he had bagged a deluxe ticket
for himself and his wife.
When had the working class band left their roots behind?
How could they justify those prices?
When had rock music become an elitist sport?
His phone pinged with a message from a friend.
Have you heard? The band have sold out.
Yes, he replied, it rather looks like they have.