I ARRIVED late.
Duran Duran had started their set without
me. I was ushered to my seat and flopped
down my weary frame.
Hammy Odious, the strictly enforced order
of the day is for the security operatives
to forcibly relocate any limb which dares
to stray a few inches into the forbidden
territory of the aisle. The result is
hundreds of people standing dutifully in
front of their allocated seats performing
a rooted to the-spot kind of jig. Arms
flail and torsos twitch but always
slightly out of tempo.
keen on accurate recordings of first
impressions, I bowed my head in a bout of
copious note taking. When I finally
glanced up, my first view of a Duran
Duran gig was the backs of two girls in
the row immediately in front of mine. One
had red trousers and stubbed out her
chewing gum on the bottom of her seat;
her companion proudly wore a cycling
proficiency patch sewn onto the sleeve of
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