On stadia (kinda)

The other weekend I went to a performance at a big stadium for what I think was only the second time in my life. (I must resist temptation and not digress onto amphitheatres, since in trawling my memory for stone memorabilia I came across Epidavros which, silent among the aromatic pines, is one of my favourite places in the world.)

The first was when I took my little sister to a Spice Girls’ concert at Wembley in about 1998, when I was 28 - so she must have been 12. I made her wear combats, bring waterproofs and a thick hoodie (it was May), and I took a thermos flask and huge cheese and pickle sandwiches. It was that much of a big deal. She came up on the train from Dorset (also a big deal) and stayed the night with me at my flat near Manor House.

We arrived at the stadium to a sea of pink and sequins. The average age of the (mostly) girls was about seven and of the (mostly) mums, about the same as mine. The stage was like a speck in the distance. Everyone was chanting ‘Spice Girls’, clap clap clap. And eating candy floss and burgers. It was not the first time I have over-thought what an occasion might require. However I was very glad of my thermal vest and trainers last Saturday. 

I spent most of the journey up bickering with my Phoenix which kept jumping onto the dashboard to obscure my view of signs for services when they appeared. I’d had to leave youngest on his own at home, my ex being two and a half hours late in picking him up and not answering his phone. Whilst lateness such as this was not entirely out of his ordinary, especially coinciding, as it did, with something nice I had planned, I was struggling with driving north and away from a potential problem. Eldest spoke to me from the back seat where he was sprawled, tired from the exertions of ‘getting food’ in town with some mates before we left: ‘I’m worried about daddy, mum.’ I won’t repeat here the expletives I yelled into his speaker call when we finally got hold of him. 

There isn’t anything I can say about the game in the generic sense, that hasn’t been said and that wouldn’t annoy genuine supporters. A modern-day equivalent of Shakespeare with full audience participation. An incredible and at times hilarious performance. Males expressing emotion, en masse. I can’t pretend I didn’t feel like an observer and an outsider, but I loved every minute nonetheless, especially the crashing cheers and reverberating ‘om’ that only a multitude of low-pitched sighs could produce. YesyesyesyesyesnooooooOOooMMmm. Lush!

Me getting us there very (stupidly) early meant we could watch people arriving. It also meant that we could visit the shop and get eldest’s surname printed on the back of his shirt. It gave me one of those moments, wishing his was the same as mine. In front of us was a grandad, a dad and two sons, having a great day out together. I wondered if my eldest noticed too, and felt self-conscious being with his mum. I looked around the crowd and wondered how many people had cancer/covid/tickets to Dubai - according to the digital screens, all of the Etihad cabin crew have been vaccinated. Did anyone else resent having to eat a vile vegan cheese and onion pasty as the only non-meat option? And drink zero coke, no full fat. Urgh.

What I most enjoyed (apart from watching my son out of the corner of my eye trying to record the whole thing on his phone, which meant he was trying to immortalise the experience) was the SPIRIT of the occasion. A massive gert bunch of people, there because they wanted to be there, physically, mentally, totally present. Cheering, sighing, singing, breathing in the moment. Mindfulness in action and the best quids I’ve spent in ages. I want more.