The Gig-goer

By Ria Jones

Nick leans on the bar, pint in hand; his head nodding slightly to the music. His face is masked by long, greasy strands of hair, (he tells people that he hasn’t had it cut in over a year with a sense of pride). At last the headlining band come on stage, and Nick downs his pint and lurches forward into the crowd.

He pushes himself to the front so that some poor short-arse is arm-pit level with him. The bass starts to reverberate around the room and his tall frame convulses in strange, awkward movements. Soon the crowd share the delight of being covered in a sticky paste of beer and other people’s sweat. The bottoms of Nick’s ultra- baggy jeans start to soak up the gunk from the floor and his trousers begin to rapidly descend down his skinny legs.

As he gets pushed into a mosh pit, the writhing bodies and flailing limbs threaten to totally de-trouser our boy, but with unbelievably skill he manages to simultaneously pull up the now- bedraggled article from around his ankles and  keep one arm up to punch the air in time with the beat. Skill. Amid the frenzy he sees his mate Gaz and they converse with a few heartfelt grunts.

Without warning, Gaz launces Nick up off his feet and throws him into the crowd. At first he’s a bit wobbly, but after using some guy’s neck as a launch pad he manages to crowd surf fairly gracefully, headbutting a few people on his way. As a surly bouncer pulls him over the barrier, he realises that he now only has one trainer – but what need for shoes when he has the music? At the end of it all, he slouches away, rolls a fag and contemplates the subliminal meanings of the lyrics, and which chippy to go to.

Rock on.