The Tall Guy

Yours truly proudly stands a lofty six-foot and eight-inches long. This has any number of ego-swelling pros and soul-destroying cons, but nowhere more does the height head-fuck come into play than when taking in the unparalleled wonder that is live music. Usually it’s all good. Let’s be honest, I have the best bloody view money can buy. Girls ask to go on my shoulders, blokes pretend not to gape at me in jealousy-driven awe and I don’t have to smell the sticky sweat of the peeps around me.

Alas, it’s not always so rosy. Besides the nagging feeling that somebody is staring squarely at my back, it’s mostly just mindless comments that get my hairy goat: “Fuckin’ ‘ell, I bet you can see all right, fella” is a classic. Yes, thanks, moron, I can. Or, “excuse me, but I’m knee-high to a grasshopper and can’t see. Is it okay if me and my seven girlfriends come and stand in front of you?” In fairness, these are usually the snooty, mature types pretending to be 18 again; the ones at gigs who you always think should probably be at home with a glass of red wine waiting for the DVD release, rather than at the gig itself. Sometimes I even hear some pretty nasty – but, I guess in their eyes, funny – remarks from the rear like I’m not even there. Or deaf. Luckily, I have usually induced just enough alcohol not to be offended, but thankfully not enough to turn around and go ape-shit on their ass, Cook-from-Skins-style.

I suppose it depends on the gig. If it’s something heavier, something you can bound around and go a bit mental to, it becomes a non-issue. Slipknot at Download springs to mind; I was pushed and grabbed and punched in every direction, probably covering every little blade of trampled grass on the entire site. It was awesome, and no one would have even noticed if I was three inches tall or the same height as the stage. Gallows at Concorde II in Brighton is another. Although, Frank Carter did full-on shin me in the face while crowd-surfing, which, in hindsight, is probably a downside of having your head above everyone else’s. (I lost both my shoes and my mobile that night, having to get the bus home sock-footed and phoneless, so it would be a bit silly to complain about some minor concussion, wouldn’t it?)

I can also become something of a Mother Theresa-like hero. At last year’s Reading weekend one of my good friends committed the ol’ festival faux-pas of drinking a thousand cans of Tesco-bought Stella throughout the day without letting a single drip of H2O pass through his beer-soaked lips. He was battered, which is fine, but mid-way through Arctic Monkeys’ headline set – smack bang in the middle of the fucking crowd, near the front – he started to sway. His eyes glazed over and he almost fainted like a 14-year-old girl on the barrier for the first time. I remember cuddling him like a big bear, still able to watch the band, whilst managing to call over the noggins of those in front of me for some water to be passed back.

It’s a mixed bag. The best feeling is when the music in front of you is so captivating, so spell-binding and glorious that no other thoughts of any kind enter your brain. There’s nothing to worry about. So at a show like that, if you’re stood behind me, well, that’s just tough titties.