The evening air was filled with promises of magic, music and memories; unfortunately it ended with blood, bruises and a battered ego.
The row Hubby and I had, as we were walking to the venue, didn’t help things. We were admittedly both “hangry” and the Disneyesque queuing system (back and forth, back and forth, back and forth) didn’t help my temperament or my “pre-Billy Joel-fall,” already bad knee.
After having walked 20+ minutes and getting through the ridiculous queue, it was time for the security, “pat-down,” part of the evening, which is always fun, right?
The gruff young man, who obviously did not want to be working on a Saturday night, patting down the hot sweaty body’s of senior citizens, took one look at me and said, “Your bag is too big… you can’t bring it in.”
“What?” was my immediate response. He proceeded to explain that my handbag was too big to bring into the venue.
Too big, compared to what?
How can a normal sized, woman’s tote bag, with no pockets, zippers or secret compartments, not be allowed in a venue that plays host to rough and tumble footballers, who usually carry giant rucksacks?
After a not very nice exchange (where I will admit the “F” bomb may have been uttered, once or twice) I angrily dumped the entire contents of my bag on the sidewalk; I needed to prove to this man, that I was not a terrorist and the most dangerous thing I had in there was my Chanel “Pirate Red, Lipstick!
However, he was unphased by my very passionate display. The “contents” of my bag, were not the problem, it was in fact, the “size” of my bag.
Apparently the bag needed to be no bigger than the size of A4 paper; (8.29 x 11.69). And mine was closer to A3; (11.69 x 16.53). This restriction was, I was told, “clearly” explained to me on the website, where I bought the tickets, over a year ago!
Sure, there may have been some teeny, tiny print, in a section titled “Terms and Conditions You Don’t Give a Shit About, but Should,” however, I honestly do not recall.
After much debate about how I was supposedly notified about this arbitrary handbag size restriction… we were told that we could walk back out to the front of the venue and leave the bag at the “Bag Drop Off Point,” and could pick it up after the concert.
Yeah… like that was going to happen!
My Sicilian, Irish, Italian, American, Steroid induced, semi-A-hole temper kicked in and I told the young man he could keep the fake, leather, Marc Jacobs, £9.99, knock off tote and I proceeded to stuff the contents of my bag, into my (and my poor husband’s) pockets!
HA, I sure showed him, huh? 🙄
Once inside, bagless and with budging pockets, I was not a happy camper. No, I did not want food. No, I did not want a drink. No, I did not want to talk about “it” or anything else for that matter. Just leave me alone and let me sulk.
After all, I do that soooo very well.
As the time passed, the sun began to set and the atmosphere became much less frenetic; I began to simmer down. Hmmmm? Perhaps a nice glass of wine and maybe a little nibble would be of some help.
Being the capable, independent, albeit slightly handicapped and stubborn woman, that I am; I slowly limped to the concession stand. Yes, a red wine and a “gourmet” hotdog would do the trick.
As I was making my way out of bowels of the building and back onto the pitch, I heard the first few notes of a piano… I then heard the crowd go crazy!
I stepped up my pace, not wanting to miss any of the action!
I saw the black and yellow cable cover thingy and I was well aware that I needed to step over it. No problem.
Unfortunately the rubber sole of my Converse sneakers, caught on the rubber strip of the cable, cover housing unit and it was all over except for the slow motion falling and my feeble attempt to save the wine!
I could see (also in slow motion) the horrified faces of the people sitting to my right; they knew I was going down… I knew I was going down… but there was nothing any of us could do to prevent it!
I hit the ground, like a tone of bricks. Oooff!
Oddly, and only because I willed it to be so, the plastic cup of red wine landed upright and only about 3/4 of the contents had been lost… most of that I could wring out of my new, yellow, Bee Manchester scarf, purchased earlier in the day!
Some men helped me up… someone handed me my wine. I think I said “thank you,” and me and my slightly bruised ego found our way back to our seats.
It was only then I realized my knee and elbow were actually bleeding, as I could feel the trickles of blood running down my arm and leg, as I tried desperately to be cool. I was however embarrassed and in shock.
What the hell had just happened?
I reluctantly told my husband and he was horrified! Was I okay? Did we need to go to the medic? What could he do? He just wanted to make it better and I just wanted to forget it happened… I’d worry about it later!
Right then, I had more important things to do. The concert had stared; Billy was obviously singing directly to me and all was right with the world… at least for now.
My battered and bruised body thoroughly enjoyed two and a half hours of great music, bittersweet memories, singing, swaying, and dancing.
Thanks Billy! Another great concert to add to my list of “Great Lifetime Concerts,” cuts and bruises notwithstanding.