Chez Kay
Andrew Kay on the dangers of being the oldest swinger in town
I’m 51 and hurtling towards 52. Not that it stops me doing what I want. For the last few months I have thrown myself into being out and about. I have been going to concerts. A fair amount of classical stuff but to this I have added a massive slab of pop and rock. I know, I should know better.
Live music attracts the oddest audiences. At Viva Diva I was in the youngest quarter of the sell out show. It was grey hair central. I sat very comfortably amongst them. A week before it was Motorhead and Alice Cooper. I looked like I was at the wrong event. Bikers have their own way of growing old – disgracefully. How they rocked in their ancient denims and raggedy leathers, many of them with mini-me offspring at their sides in matching clobber. There two more unifying traits, older bikers are either emaciated or morbidly obese – no in between.
‘‘Older bikers are either emaciated or morbidly obese – no in between’’
Mad Mica mustered another mob, this time kiddies and parents. It was rather sweet until the bimboy started to swear. The air prickled. Odd as parents had elected to buy tickets for their kids to watch this strange sexual creature thrust and grind his way through the vigours of a sexually charged set. What more damage could the odd eff word do?
Mica also attracted mad people. One seemed hell bent on winding me up. She danced at me, bumping into me and giggling wildly. I moved away, but she was having none of it. She merely danced at me with more momentum gathering speed as she hurtled through the crowd, hitting me full on then swiveling and looking up at me like a demented jackal. I politely asked her not to and she wobbled back to her crowd. No doubt she thought I was a kill joy. Had she been called Joy and had she continued the name might have been appropriate.
The ultimate experience came at the O2 Arena. What a place, so steep, the upper reaches require crampons and oxygen. I took my seat and was overcome by the tangible whiff of the hormone patch. The audience was made up of women of a certain age. Behind us a row of matrons in too tight (and too young) tops ranted away. They shouted so much it was hard to see why they had come. One repeatedly yelled in my ear “Come on misty boy” as if egging on a nag at the races. Normally I am very vocal when offended by people who spoil my enjoyment. When I shush, people know exactly what I mean. But we were a row below these monsters, on the O2′s upper escarpments – and they had so many advantages – height, weight and lager. They were drinking pints faster than I could throw one on the floor.
So what pop event could attracts these ghoulish girly gollums? Take That of course. Fortunately the utterly charming mancy scallwags have grown in every way and their breathtaking show managed to surpass the primal screaming of the mad bitches in the row behind.
