I hate to yuck anyone’s yum, but some of you have terrible taste. As I understand it, doors to the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium open at 5pm. While there is no official start time for the concert, reports from previous shows suggest that Beyoncé will appear on stage anytime between 7.30pm and 8.30pm. In the absence of support acts, those who arrive early — which is advised — must be prepared to wait. The stadium curfew (10:30pm on weekdays, 10pm on Sundays) means the show lasts between 90 minutes and two hours.
Now before I go on, let me be clear: this is not about Beyoncé. Believe me, I learned my lesson from when I previously suggested in these pages that Sydney was in fact too nice to live in, after which I was inundated with questions such as “WHY DO YOU HATE AUSTRALIA?” As such, the last thing I intend to do is poke the Beyhive. Moreover, I realise that for millions of fans, attending one of these shows may be a flashbulb memory, a precious moment shared with mums and besties.
Yet all I can think is: how many times would I have to visit the bathroom between 5pm and the first guitar riff? Would I lose my place in the standing area? Could my ravaged mid-thirties vertebrae survive standing still for several hours? A pint is how much? What if I’m stuck behind people hoisting signs? Or constantly on their phones? Or clapping at the wrong time? Or talking during the quiet songs? Or singing along wildly out of time and tune? Will there be an encore? How long will it go on for? Do I want to leave before the end to have any chance of getting on a train home? Am I being present right now? I can hear my therapist doubling his prices.
Nor is this is an “actually, lockdown was good” thinkpiece. I get that life is about experiences. That’s why travel has rebounded so spectacularly post-pandemic, even amid soaring prices and heinous queues. Covid reminded us that leaving the country, or simply the house, is precious.
As the virus spread, we were restricted to spending our furlough cash on goods. But while a new dishwasher may save you time, experiences are about time well spent. What makes them different is that the product being sold is memory itself. And unlike household appliances, each one is unique.
As we have got richer (or according to the Office for Budget Responsibility, as we used to) companies, including pop stars, have upped their game to provide us with the most intense — and let’s face it, Instagrammable —experiences.
So those who attend a Beyoncé concert or any other major event are lured by the promise of awesome memories to treasure, photos to share and stories to tell.
As for me, I stayed at home last night eating peanut butter out of a jar and writing this column. Who’s to say which was the more meaningful evening?
I could do without foxes in my garden
Two foxes are currently staying rent-free on the roof of my tiny garden shed. In ordinary circumstances, I’d say live and let live. The cost of accommodation in the capital is out of control and I’m happy to sublet.
The problem is, I live with a beagle. And despite the fact that she gets to enjoy the comforts of inside (blankets in winter, watermelon in summer), Gracie is beside herself. I can see it in her eyes — the chutzpah of it.
I’ve tried affixing motion-sensitive light beams, even the banging of pots and pans (incidentally, there is no possible way of doing this without looking deeply disturbed.) Nothing has worked. And as a city beagle, Gracie doesn’t seem capable of repelling the damn things, just arguing.
I’m all for the rewilding of London, but foisting a couple of foxes on a beagle home feels more like the premise for a short-lived BBC2 sitcom.
