The Courteeners playing to a roaring home crowd of 25,000 honourable fans is going to be seen as the turning point for Liam Fray and the band. The moment Britain’s biggest underground band finally engraved their name into British rock folklore: ‘Heaton Park, 5th of June 2015’: It was sure to be memorable. When the announcement was made, like the rest of the fans, I felt proud to think I’ve been a massive fan since hearing St Jude for the very first time. This was our equivalent to Spike Island, our answer to Oasis at Maine Road. This was destined to be huge. Everyone who attended will have their very own ‘Heaton Park Story’. They will reminisce with their mates and maybe even tell their future children. I, however, had a very unconventional night… Things didn’t exactly go to plan, and I was left in total dismay after a series of unfortunate events.
It was the morning of Heaton Park; the wait was over, and it genuinely felt like Christmas day. I tuned in to catch Liam’s interview on the BBC breakfast show. I packed my best polo and headed down the M6 from The Lakes to Manchester. The two and half hour car journey consisted of The Smiths, The Strokes and few of my favourite Courteeners tracks. The anticipation of the night was exciting. We landed at our friend’s uni in Salford, sipped several dark fruits and caught up on lost time. It’s one of life’s bleak realities that as your friendship group grows older you all fulfil separate ambitions, some work away, some study at a university miles away. When you reunite for nights like this they are nostalgic and special. It’s like your mind has a place predetermined in the memory bank for these occasions. The pre-drink was going smoothly: Peace were on the iPod dock, the Taxi was booked, and the humid overcast North West weather was showing signs of improvement.
Our ride pulled up. We had our pre-lash buzz-on in the taxi, for the evening was going to be totally magical. Into the park we entered, soon to be amongst an atmosphere of freedom, flares and bucket hats. Girls were doing the jubilant skip that seems to be reserved for gigs and festivals down the paths. The boys were boisterously hugging each other like we do at football matches. The vibe was something unique. We arrived at the back of queue to the sound of the support act. Eagerly jittering to Peace’s ‘Bloodshake’ I was soon to be witness of Liam Fray putting his band amongst his elite Mancunian predecessors. I was soon to be in a utopia of good music, optimum levels of serotonin and a momentary release you can only experience at a gig. I was a few peoples distance away from the Courteeners at Heaton Park. The moment I’ve been waiting for since it was originally announced.
“Tickets please” calls the scanner on the gate. I reach for my ticket, “OH F**K, OH F**K, OH F**K, I’VE LOST IT!!”
A total moment of panic set in, me and my friends were in total limbo. Do they help me find my ticket? Or do they go on in without me? They even offered to give me theirs. The situation felt like the scene on Lord of The Rings when Gandalf fights the Balrog for his companions’ freedom. Around 2:00 in the clip below should clarify the level of panic, the moment of drama, the level of seriousness. I am Gandalf, my friends are Frodo.
Okay, that was a slight exaggeration, but as you could imagine shit had well and truly hit the aeroplane propeller. I insisted my friends went on without me. I needed a plan. I needed a get out of jail free card. With £40 in my wallet and an extra £20 that one friend scored me in separate pocket as a contingency, I set off on the task of finding anyone was selling spares. Frantically running down the paths of Heaton Park, I called “is anyone selling their ticket?” My endeavours achieved nothing but a facial expression you’d expect from a TV audience watching Embarrassing Bodies from the gig goers. It certainly felt like I was a momentary lower must crumb of society. I kept trying, it was imperative I saw the Courteeners. A little Scouse casual-jacket-wearing beacon of hope caught me as I was running past, “how much you offering mate?” Now in retrospect this was a bad idea. I retrieved my wallet from my pocket and said “I’ll give you all the cash in my wallet. Please mate, I need to get in”. Emptied the £40 out of my wallet and handed it over for the ticket. I sprinted back up the path with a mixture of nerves and excitement. I arrived at the ticket scanner panting and out of breath ready to be there before the band come on. I handed my ticket over, the machine sounded a negative bleep – I had been sold a bloody fake.
I was in disbelief. The ticket scanner advised me to speak to box office, they would ‘help’ me. I explained what happened to the attendants in the fibreglass cabin. They couldn’t offer me as much as a “looks like you’ve missed the boat mate” / “You’re just going to have to catch them next time pal”. I couldn’t live with it. Surely they can make exceptions, one phone call, but no. They mocked me further. One women shouted to a security guard stood at the entrance of the cabin “Ere Tyrone, listen to this. This lad here had a ticket, lost it, and bought a f…HAHAHAHA”. I got increasingly frustrated and upset. I threw some rash phrases in their direction. They didn’t like it. They called over some grimacing wall puncher that’s built of reinforced concrete, 3 times my height and 4 times my weight. He grabbed me by the scruff of my Harrington jacket, shoved me towards the exit while shouting in an aggressive, steroid-rage tone “push back lad, I dare you, see what happens!” I tried to reason with him – after all bouncers are renowned for looking like Circus wrestlers and talking like true diplomats, aren’t they? My words proved little avail. I was ejected.
I wasn’t particularly intrigued to ‘see what happens’. I didn’t want to be another anecdote to tell his ‘boys’ back on the doors in Birkenhead. I was stood the wrong side of the barrier. I was surrounded by other people who had been ejected for one reason or another. As a last ditch effort I asked people if they had their ticket, with the £20 I kept in my other pocket I bought one. The seller ensured me it was real. I had another chance. I handed my ticket to a security guard but I was abruptly stopped in my advancements by other grizzly bears in high visibility. Because I had already been ejected for what preceded I wasn’t allowed in this time. They took my ticket off me and sent me on my way.
I was beyond angry, I was totally distraught. I was diminished of any strength left to try and get in. Two get out of jail cards and they didn’t work. I walked back along the increasingly familiar exit path out of Heaton Park feeling extremely bitter and fed up. I heard Liam arrive on stage with “Good evening Manchester!” before breaking out into ‘Are you in Love with a Notion’, followed by ‘Cavorting’. The feeling was gutting. It felt like England had just been knocked out the World Cup. This was my ultimate dystopia. My favourite band’s biggest ever gig and I’ve missed it.
Feeling totally dwindled of all my pre gig anticipation, I headed back towards Salford until I saw a cab. The journey initiated with “Salford Crescent please” spoke with a deflated tone. Like some sort of metropolitan taxi psychologist he a queried my mood and sympathised. It was a refreshing change to the run-of-the-mill “been busy tonight?” “Not really. Should liven up later on tonight though.” It’s a fact that majority of taxi rides are distinctly average – you never hear someone say catching a taxi was the highlight of the night. This one was an exception. The cab driver listened to my memoirs and showed a touch of solidarity by charging the cab at a discounted price. If I hadn’t of been fleeced out of a chunk of money I would have tipped him.
I arrived back at the halls waiting for the rest to pile in. Swishing a few drinks with her flatmates feeling unquestionably devastated, my night was amounting to very little, and I needed to see at least a glimmer of celebration. I dragged a couple of friends and took a cab to Oxford Road to salvage what remained of my night. We started at Sound Control. I danced fictitiously and drank a few bottles of blue VS. Despite my best efforts, I wasn’t really in a mood for dancing, we moved on to a more chilled out venue where we could sit and digest the day. The bouncer was understandably coy about to letting us in due to our attire of shorts and T-shirt. After vigorously checking our ID’s, he granted us access. We walked up some steps you’d normally find in a Debenhams store and arrived in fancy watering hole. The lighting was dim and the walls were draped in a garish gold satin. I made my way to the bar, walking past Deansgate bankers unobtrusively on their tinder dates and Chief executives discussing spa days over white wine spritzers. Using my best pensive look, I browsed through the menu to demonstrate I know my fancy cocktails. The truth is we were unambiguously upsetting the social fabric of the joint. I ordered and no doubt mispronounced 3 randomly selected cocktails. Only cost £16, that’s right 16-whole-pounds. With the type of disgust a northerner experiences when they buy a pint in London, I made my way to our table and took a pew. After going over the days unbelievable events my last saving grace was a delicious cocktail to unglue my lips. Surely with the hiked price of £6 per cocktail it would taste exotically divine. I leaned forward out of the vintage leather sofa, moved my cocktail towards my mouth and took more than a sip – the cocktail tasted disgusting. It was like iced-coffee. How can a six pound cocktail taste like coffee?! When the barman was shacking the mixture did it consist of cocacola and fucking coffee granules?! My stomach was having a nuclear reaction. It was a wrap. My night was a total shitshow. Taxi Please.
The night I was looking forward for months was a total catastrophe. My bank balance took a hammering and I missed my favourite band. The young man who ripped me off: I hope you spent that money more wisely than I did. As for fancy cocktails? ….It’s strictly bottles of Becks for the foreseeable future.
Words by Aaron Spencer
@aaronspencer