It’s been a while since I hitchhiked to a gig. But last Sunday evening, as the minutes ticked away before the Pet Shop Boys walked on stage at London’s O2, I found myself in the unforeseen position of thumbing south through leafy Hertfordshire. Hitching against the clock is never comfortable – especially in a desperate quest to reach a twice-postponed, much-anticipated performance.
My day had begun on the beautifully corrugated east coast of the isle of Arran. On waking, I looked from the window of my attic room out across the Firth of Clyde to the Scottish mainland and the towering silhouette of Holy Island. But then Sunday rapidly degenerated into an unholy scramble which felt more like an anxiety dream than a great adventure.
