Month: July 2005

… after the Oasis gig.

Clearly, the concert was one of the more intense experiences of my life. Like I said, I’d surprisingly easily made my way to Manchester. The concert was at this huge stadium (where football games and such usually take place), and leaving the station, I had absolutely no difficulty finding it—just followed the path littered with ticket scalpers.

I made it there by 4:30, the gates having opened by 3:00 or so. It was about 20-30% full at that time, and all sorts of no-name (and semi-named) bands were busy keeping the audience awake. The most notable ones being the Coral, who, though cool, are seriously overrated. In a little while, I met James and Stewart—a totally inappropriate story, for a later time.

Now moving along, as the no-name bands got more recognizable, crowds started filling the arena. Tens… hundred? of thousands, lost in this sea of Oasis fandom goodness. By 9 or so in the evening, it was beyond packed.

People EVERYWHERE. All (drunk and smoking) and/or (doing drugs). (You need to parse the Boolean algebra on that sentence carefully). The mood was insanely… passionate. Things started with people throwing these big colourful beach balls, then empty beer cups, then cups full of beer, then shirts, then PEOPLE.

It was intense, and Oasis hadn’t even come on yet.

<sidetrack>
I was sitting close to one of the hottest woman I’ve seen, in a figure hugging one piece dress that barely came down to her upper thigh. And it kept riding up even higher as she crossed and uncrossed her legs. Anyway, in these few hours, she’s been sitting all calm and ridiculously gorgeous, continuously drinking and smoking, while her boyfriend (?) is all over her, constantly kissing her knees and thighs in between sips of beer. And then, it happens—she pukes like 4 pints of beer and passes out. He ends up embarrassed and has to carry her out of there.

She didn’t look too pretty then. And Oasis hadn’t even come on yet.
</sidetrack>

Around 9, Oasis comes on, and the crowd goes fucking insane—and the sea of thronging fans flow toward the stage, only a steel, concrete and bouncer barricade separating them from the band. And then, it happens—the teeming masses break down the barricade and Oasis, who’d barely started playing stopped in the interest of crowd safety.

“If one of you gets injured, it’ll show up on a T-shirt on your way out.”

While things were paused waiting for the stewards to fix the barricade, Liam suggests the crowd keeps itself entertained by singing Oasis songs to themselves—but the crowd has other ideas. For the next half an hour, pretty women were desperately climbing anyone’s shoulder they could get on, so the camera (which was hovering over and through the crowds) would catch them, and they could flash their breasts.

This, ladies and gents, is entertainment. Half an hour of young, pretty women (and eeek, some old ones and SOME MEN) screaming hysterically and going topless.

Anyway 9:30, everything’s fixed and the band begins to play. The crowd goes to a new level of insane, me included. Jumping wildly, stripping, dancing, screaming lyrics and generally going berserk. I wouldn’t be surprised if somebody died in a stampede or two. They played many old favourites, and a few tracks from their new album “Don’t believe the truth”.

I thought it was all awesome, but an objective observer I am not.

Much later, close to midnight, they were done and as the huge-ass speakers and strobe lights calmed down, people flowed out of the stadium. I then ended back at the station (the details of which are elaborated in a separate story) to find the last train to London was long gone. I decided to, like a 1000 or other so people, camp out at the station for 8 or whatever hours until the first train next morning.

I’m writing this up instead of going to sleep.

Because it was fucking awesome, and I’m not sleepy.

There is much confusion in London, but I am fine (not like you care).

And I’m not in London. Updates will follow when I get access to the internet, as in properly. For now, delineate is your best option, as I’ve uploaded pictures there, which will show up over the next 10-12 days or so.

Here is where I am now, in case you’re curious.

It’s freaking awesome. Enjoy.

I know you’re all eager to hear about the gig, but that’s still being typed up. Also, these posts have been “posted” at some arbitrary point when I have had access to the internet, and will appear once-a-day to once-in-few-days, automatically. If, at some point, it looks like I’m being rude by continuing to post without responding to your comments—you know why.

One of the other perks of being delayed a day was to get to spend another day with mum. This gave us the chance to talk (some more), and the kinds of topics that eventually arose were absolutely hilarious. Now, brace yourselves for this (swallow that liquid you’re tasting and re-tasting, NOW!), and don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Apparently, (really) random people have been getting in touch with her—wanting to know what plans she has for her “nice” son, now that he is of “marriageable age”.

(Apparently, once the word’s out that you’ve crossed puberty, anything’s game. On a side note, I still haven’t found my Adam’s apple after much searching.)

No seriously, I could be a serial psychopath or an axe murderer for all they know. Just how the hell do they come to the conclusion I’m “nice”? Better yet, even if I am “nice”, why would that imply I would be ready for, or even want to, marry their daughters? It doesn’t stop there, they’re apparently eager with numerous details—starting with the usual ones like “how qualified they are” down to the more abstruse “check out my daughter’s complexion”.

Apart from the obvious “stop stalking my son”, slamming phones and so on, my calm demeanor resulted in being asked, “Oh, so H, what should I do about these calls?”. I contemplated the most obnoxiously humourous answer I could pull off; you know the one going something like, “Only innies, no outies, no flat-filed nails, only tapered…” and much much more.

My real answer however, I leave to your imagination to conjure up.

I’m still quite amazed at how easy it’s all been so far. I think I’ve handled things rather nicely. Me, the sheltered kid who’s had his bed made for him for over 20 years of his life.

A SNAFU resulting in having nowhere to go from the airport, I figured out and reserved a room at a B&B in central London—one that I could actually afford—and made my way to it (with luggage) using public transport. I later caught up with “friends of friends” (much more on this later), borrowed keys to a friends place to crash at, and picked up tickets to Oasis’ gig at Manchester.

I am now (again, with no help from anyone) on my way to Manchester Piccadilly, huge self-satisfied grin on my face, tickets for the show in my hands.

Now I can see what the Indian train system is modelled after and hopes to emulate. It feels just about the same—the way the tracks are laid, the demarcation of stations, the sounds and smells, the stalls—only the view’s different. Replace vivid browns with lush greens, cows and pigs with cows and horses …

I’m going to use a slightly different system since I don’t have regular access to the internet over here. What is essentially a basic necessity (like power or air) and is available EVERYWHERE back home—even in that green park—is supposedly some ultra-speciality here.

Since I don’t have access to it as a result, I’ve decided to (and do) maintain a full travel log on paper, and through pictures. When (and this is rather rare, as is obvious) I have access to the internet, I will upload some bits (offset in time by a few days).

So what you’re reading below really isn’t fresh. But as far as you’re concerned, it might as well be, so that is one less reason to stop reading.

And I’m here.

Either my display of anger, or the fact that they felt sorry for me as “I’d missed my friend’s wedding” (yes, I lied), resulted in me travelling first class from Chicago to London.

Not business class, first class.

Now that’s nearly a 7 hour long flight, and having people wait on me hand and foot, to sleep with me, and most importantly, having LEG ROOM made the journey most pleasant. The after-effect of this was being “fast tracked” through immigration, baggage claim and customs as well. I was out out in less than 10 minutes after we’d landed. Nothing’s lost, nothing’s delayed, more than the ACTUAL DAY ADDED, of course.

But it’s all cool, and though I have nowhere specific to go (like I said, nothing’s sure), or crash, I’m well, and happy. (I’m proceeding to figure out a plan. 5 or so pounds spent on calls and not-really-having-spoken-to-anyone later, I’m beginning to realize the genius of the business plan that is the “minimum connection fee”).

<Begin Racism^*>
» I can’t help but notice the number of Indians (technically, of Indian origin) around. 1 in 3 or 4 or something. Particularly the number doing “menial” work. EVERY person manning a stall, cab driver, … TRASH PICKER is Indian. (That’s definitely something I haven’t seen before—the midwest has its redneckey-trashiest whitetrashey folk, the east and west coasts have their African-Americans, and most places have their fair share of neighbouring country illegal hispanics.)

Was this the idea of the “better life” their parents dreamt for them when they immigrated? What’s the point?

At least, STOP TALKING IN FUCKING HINDI.

» I don’t know how else to say this, but people are just less beautiful here. If, in an average large city here, good looking people average an 8, here it’s a 6.5. If you don’t believe me, think Camila.
</End Racism^*>

Much more on this later, but now moving onto less flameworthy topics—the music playing everywhere around here (coffee shops, lounges, radio and such) is just stellar. If there’s one good reason to move here, it’s that.

^*Reading this section implies you’ve read, understood and agreed with the terms in the disclaimer.