On the Corner of Suicide Alley and Memory Lane

My love of the Manic Street Preachers’ music has endured for 15 years now, and it shows no serious signs of abating. In December 2011, I made an 800 mile round trip from Glasgow to London to watch them play all 38 of their singles.

It had barely been a year since I last saw them live; this occasion was also in London, but at the far smaller Brixton Academy. It felt like more than eleven months, a winter ago. That time I had met up with my friend and fellow Manics fan, Alan, and had ‘enjoyed’ a fractured night’s sleep in a hostel near Lancaster Gate after the gig. The next day I met Stefania, an Italian fan of the band and walked around Hyde Park with her.

This time would be slightly different.

Having already seen the band in London, this year at that, I might have been tempted to not buy a ticket for the gig. I’d already seen them a dozen times. But a few things swayed it for me; one, it was to take place in the O2 Arena, a venue that I had long wished to visit (due to patent sports stadia/arena nerdism). Secondly, it was London at Christmas. Thirdly, I would get to catch up with the friends I had met through the band. Oh, and fourthly, with the promise of them playing all their singles, even the ones the band themselves notably hated, I would get to hear a couple of songs I’d never heard live.

I’d probably already made up my mind; these were just justifications.

Over the last year, I’ve heard a couple of people describe music fandom and even having a favoured political party as being a bit like supporting a football team. I suspect both individuals used this frame of reference in the pejorative sense, drawing allusions to the behavioural addiction that many supporters of sporting teams appear to experience.

They do have a point; many people do seem to pick a favourite football or rugby club, political party and increasingly a musical act, and blindly follow said group wherever they go (literally or figuratively). They’ll tend to ignore most, if not all, criticism levelled at their beloved, and defend every decision made by the same. I browse fora dedicated to both my favourite football team and band and it’s clear that some people’s relationships with ‘their team’ or ‘their band’ goes well beyond simply liking the way they play or the music they make.

I’m not entirely innocent in this respect, nor am I guilty in the first degree. I don’t see my football team much these days because I can’t afford the ~£500 it would cost to buy tickets for all their home games each year. Nevertheless, I do endeavour to follow each game played via TV, radio, the internet. Their results can have an adverse or positive effect on my mood. Most of my blogging nowadays concerns their fortunes, or lack of.

I saw the Manics three times in 2011, spending easily ~£500. I’ve already seen them around a dozen times. I had to fight the temptation to buy the new 38 track compilation CD because I already own 37 of the tracks. But I know people who will go to every gig on a tour and buy all seven formats (including Japanese imports) of the new album. I think many people outside fandom would consider that type of behaviour excessive; perhaps that’s why we inside fandom feel so comfortable in each other’s company.

I do procrastinate somewhat when it comes to buying travel tickets and booking hotel accommodation. For some reason I hate it, probably because it’s so expensive and you’re not purchasing anything tangible. You don’t get any form of capital out of the transaction. And there’s a tricky balance to be struck between how much you pay for travel and how much you pay for lodgings.

Train travel is almost prohibitively expensive these days, the bus takes too long, and I didn’t fancy driving, so I was pretty much destined for the plane. Being flexible here helps. I was only really heading down for one night, but staying another night could make the expense of the trip less onerous. For example, flying down on Saturday and returning on Sunday might cost £120+. If I flew down on the Friday and returned on the Sunday the flights would be substantially cheaper. I would have to pay for two nights’ accommodation rather than just the one, but the total package would be overall less of an outlay.

So, I had my ticket, flights, and I managed to find a relatively inexpensive hotel in the London Docklands, just across the Thames from the O2 itself (this seemed like a good idea at the time, but more on that later). I just had to decide what I was doing with myself on the Friday night…

Like many people, I have a large extended family with cousins and second cousins I’ve never met and that I’m only faintly aware of. However, my mother had been asked by her cousin and his wife to be godmother to their first child, a daughter. When I was born, my mother asked Aunt Dot to return the favour. Our two families were close until Dot’s husband Jimmy died, and for whatever reason we (my sister and I at least) lost contact with Dot and the girls, Fiona and Elaine.

That was the case until we all made contact again thanks to the wonder of Facebook. Before my flight to London in January departed Prestwick Airport, I had had lunch with Fiona, now a mother of two herself. We hadn’t spoken in nearly twenty years, which seems absurd; some relationship somewhere along the line had obviously become damaged and our families simply stopped talking to one another. This was something that occurred with more regularity in the days before social networking arrived to save us all.

Fiona’s sister Elaine works and lives in London, not far from Brixton, but had been abroad on holiday when the January gig had taken place. Fiona suggested I text Elaine and arrange to meet her and her family this time round and sent me her phone number.

It took me a while to muster the courage. I’m not a people person at the best of time, even with relatives, and especially ones I hadn’t spoken to for twenty years. I was worried that any suggestion of me visiting would appear that I was angling for some free accommodation for the night, and consciously or not, I think I managed to imply that I had booked a hotel in the Docklands for Friday and Saturday (although it should be noted I’m not great at communication; you should have reached this conclusion if you’ve read this far).

Elaine and her family were unfortunately already engaged on the Friday and Sunday, with a window of a few hours on Saturday afternoon before the gig. This suited me, but left me having to arrange accommodation for the Friday. I hummed and hawed for a while, thinking about staying near the airport (cheap, but in the middle of nowhere), in Croydon, near Elaine’s house (more expensive and in Croydon), or in London itself (ridiculously dear). I think I was browsing Google Earth when the solution hit me.

I’m fascinated by the sea, its scent and its sound, the sight of the horizon. I grew up inland, and I always enjoyed our family visits to the seaside (Fiona and Elaine lived in a coastal town). As I’ve grown older, the sea has meant more and more to me. Sometimes I feel I become lost and overwhelmed by the urban sprawl and the rural expanse and I need to be reminded that there is more water on this planet than land. Being at the coast grounds me, earths me, grants me appreciation of the clay and rock beneath my feet.

There are lots of coastal towns in the UK, in many different stages of decay, each with their own quota of faded seaside glamour (to quote the Delays). As a committed fan of nostalgia and quiet despair, I find myself drawn to towns like Blackpool, Scarborough and Morecambe. I’ve been in the past to Skegness and Barry. But unlike many other coastal towns, Brighton doesn’t appear to be defined by its history as a seaside resort. It seems to be doing quite well for itself as a satellite town (probably because it’s so close to London) with a thriving nightlife, notable gay scene and yet people still go there to be beside the seaside. Like me.

Brighton is only around 45 miles from London, and only 25 from Gatwick. It occurred to me I could stay the night in Brighton and then travel up to London on Saturday morning. A quick check of the train timetables proved this was feasible, and so that was me; my itinerary was confirmed.

It’s rare I’m so organised I manage to get all my logistics sorted a month before my travel date; it was quite relaxing. I like to labour under the apprehension that I’m capable of extemporising and taking care of major travel plans on the hoof, but I’m really not. Come Friday, 16^th December my sister gave me a life into Glasgow Airport, bound for Gatwick.

There had been some snow in the UK that week, and as a result our flight was delayed by around 40-60 minutes. Not that the flight handling agency were keen on sharing that information. A couple of hundred of us stood by the gate for half-an-hour with nary an explanation why our flight had been delayed.

This small delay had an effect on my further travel with the result being I didn’t get checked into my hotel until half-past seven, maybe 90 minutes later than I had anticipated. I was a little tired on top of that, so by the time I’d had a quick nap and charged my compact camera’s battery, it was already creeping towards 9pm and the nightlife was beginning to emerge. Nevertheless, I took a walk from my hotel near West Pier, to the Ferris wheel at Brighton pier and back again, trying to find suitable horizontal surfaces to rest my compact camera on to try and take a long exposure shot of the sea and the still-illuminated pier. The results weren’t so great.

There just happened to be an Odeon cinema next to my hotel, so figuring I wasn’t going clubbing, I might as well take in a film. I saw Sherlock Homes: Game of Shadows, having enjoyed the first instalment. It was, as The Sun might say, an enjoyable knockabout, and when it had finished I walked the 20 yards to my hotel and went to sleep while listening to shouts, screeches and occasional protests to bouncers from the nightclubs four storeys below.

I didn’t rise particularly early, getting out of the hotel for an exploration in daylight around half past eight or so. The sun was still rising above the extant pier, but I wanted to have a closer look at the remains of the West pier. As I stepped onto the shingle beach, I was slightly surprised to see not one but two surfers trying desperately to warm up before braving the English Channel.

There wasn’t much left of the West Pier to see; some iron columns driven into the beach. There seems little point in restoring the pier and it looks like the iron armature will stand as a relic of Brighton’s past for a while yet. After a cursory browse of the shops, I checked out of the hotel and made my way to the station to catch a train to London. I hadn’t as much time in Brighton as I’d liked, and I’ll have to return some day to visit the Lanes as was recommended to me.

Elaine picked me up from the station near her house around half past twelve. I spent the next four hours with her, her partner and their two girls in their kitchen, eating some kind of upmarket tomato soup, looking at old family photographs and playing their upright piano. Oddly, it turned out they had bought the instrument from a shop in Paisley, the proprietor of which I sometimes play football with.

I still had to cross London before I could check in to my hotel, dump my bag and make my way to the venue, so at half past four I boarded a train bound for London Bridge. This allowed me my first glimpse of Renzo Piano’s Shard building if nothing else.

Somewhat coincidentally, my friend in Manics fandom Tim had managed to book a room in the same hotel I had, and he was waiting at Blackwall DLR station when my train arrived. I managed to talk him into waiting for me.

It was then I discovered a small flaw in the hotel I’d booked. It may well have been half a mile away from the arena as the crow flies, but crows can fly and I can’t. And as there was a river between the two buildings, I would have to use public transport.

As we made our way to the O2, Tim and I debated the best method of getting there. Blackwall DLR station was the last in zone 2, but to get to the Dome in the most expedient manner, we would have to change at Canning Town, which is in zone 3. I wasn’t sure if I could do that with my zones 1-2 travelcard, and my attempts to convince Tim to come the long way round with me fell on deaf ears, so we ended up having a race.

Yes, a race. I headed west, taking a DLR to Poplar, changing for Canary Wharf, and then taking the Jubilee line underground one stop to North Greenwich. Tim’s route was much simpler, involving the one change at Canning, and he soundly beat me, meeting Rel and Sheila inside the Dome some twenty minutes before my arrival.

Some Manics fans will queue outside the venue all day and night for a place as close to the stage as possible. Rel, Sheila, Tim and I paid the queue a quick visit to see if we could spy any faces we knew, but we spent more time before doors opening look for food and drink and places to sit down.

For the gig itself, Rel and Sheila had seats while Tim and I were standing, so we went our separate ways around an hour before the first of the evening’s two sets was due to start. On the venue floor, we met another two Manics fans, Ben and Snooki.

The gig itself was fantastic. We stood behind the sound desk, purportedly the place in any music venue where the racket made on stage is best experienced. The band did sound pretty good, probably due to the addition in recent years of Sean Reid on keyboards and trumpet and Wayne Murray on guitar, which has made the band’s live sound much bigger and richer, but the O2’s acoustics and sound system probably had a beneficial effect as well.

I’d divide the Manics’ singles into four categories; 1, epochal songs. 2, pretty damn good songs. 3, songs I really like. 4, rubbish. Most of their singles fall within categories 2 and 3 with thankfully only a handful in 4 (‘So Why So Sad’, ‘She is Suffering’). There are a few singles the band consider to be category 4 I consider category 2 or 3 and therefore don’t play, so this was a good opportunity to hear the likes of Revol and Love’s Sweet Exile in a live setting.

The band were joined by a couple of special guests. Super Furry Animals frontman Gruff Rhys enlivened ‘Let Robeson Sing’, and Nina Persson sang her part on ‘Your Love Alone is Not Enough’ in persson.

They ended, as they tend to do these days, with A Design for Life, arguably their signature (category 1) song. Confetti cannons exploded during the climax and Nicky Wire smashed his Maranello bass against the stage, a link to their instrument trashing younger days.

We lingered afterwards, as many Manics fans are prone to do; most others left while the squall of feedback from the climax of A Design for Life was still decaying. Then we went to the bar where we had a pint and a Smirnoff Ice chaser.

I knew before the gig, that if I drank any alcohol, I’d be desperate for terrible fast food come midnight. I think Tim was getting hungry as well, so we decided to head back to Blackwall. By this time, my thought processes had been significantly lubricated to decide that I was going to risk going through zone 3 on my 1-2 zone ticket. Besides, the last westbound train of the evening on the Jubilee line had departed.

As we boarded the DLR for Blackwall, I noticed an individual wearing a hi-vis jacket. A ticket inspector, I surmised. “Don’t worry,” said Tim. “I’ve never seen anyone check tickets on the underground”. As the train pulled out of the station, the ticket inspector, for she was one, walked towards us. She glanced at our tickets, and then turned on her heel and was gone. I’m still none the wiser as to whether my ticket was valid or not.

We returned to the hotel, eagerly anticipating the food we were going to order. Then we saw the menus. There was nothing I fancied and Tim was quoted £10 for a pizza. So instead we just bought two rounds of Peroni and got drunker.

I had nothing to do the next morning; no need to check out until noon and my flight back wasn’t until half past seven. I woke at my leisure, had a cup of tea and a shower. I met Tim at check out, and when the DLR bound for Bank rolled up at the station, the window that halted in front of us was filled with the faces of three Manics fans we happened to know.

At Bank, the five of us switched to the northbound Northern line, but we were destined for different destinations. Tim got off at Angel, the rest of us Kings Cross. I was heading for Oxford Street under the misconception I might get some Christmas shopping done. Instead, I did what I do almost every time I visit Oxford Street and left.

I normally find myself taking the same route away from the UK’s most over-hyped retail area; eastbound towards Tottenham Court Road, then down Charing Cross to Shaftesbury Avenue before eventually ending up in Covent Garden. I’m not sure why Covent Garden, I just feel comfortable there for some reason.

After a short walk along the South Bank, I was so traumatised (and with my legs still aching from standing for three hours the previous evening) and tired of life that I decided to leave London. While it was still a good few hours until my flight, I felt as if I’d be more comfortable reading a book in the departure lounge than wandering aimlessly around a city I’ve seen most of, by myself.

And that was the weekend over, save my flight being delayed by 90 minutes or so and a vague hint that the airline and/or handling agency didn’t deal with the situation as competently as they might. To top it all, when I attempted to buy some chips on the drive back to the house, the first chip shop didn’t have any. Chips that is.

But it was a great weekend, and one of my most enjoyable experiences travelling to see the Manics play. I perhaps didn’t get to see or meet as many people as I could have, but I enjoyed the company of the ones I did.

That might be quite a saccharine thought to end this on, but I find I don’t often enjoy my expeditions. This one I did.

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