I love travelling for gigs and checking out a city for a couple of days. I’m pretty geeky about the music I like and love nothing more than going on adventure to see a band. There’s always a sense of community around a big gig, and I love seeing the swarms of band t-shirts dotted around whatever town I’m in.
After carefully selecting which t-shirts I’ll be taking into battle with me, I set out early on a Friday morning a couple of weeks ago to catch two Metallica gigs in London, with the first concert being that night and the second being on the Sunday. (Two different setlists but I’d have done the two nights regardless!)
Normally, when I traipse across Europe following Iron Maiden on tour, I get flights and – more often than not – kip in the airport after the gig and hop on the earliest flight home.
On this adventure, with concerts on a Friday and Sunday, I decided to get the train and even – even! – stay in a hotel. I’m 40 now, and sleeping on an airport bench doesn’t have the same appeal as it used to.
So, it’s 10 hours before the first concert and I get to Glasgow Central Station. I’m looking forward to a nice, chilled journey down to London with snacks, a book, and making my ears bleed with heavy metal goodness.
Except the trains to London get suspended.
ScotRail tells anyone who has to get to London that day do so via Edinburgh – and I HAVE to get to London. I check to see which trains, planes and hot air balloons are available to get me there on time.
The next train from Edinburgh to London is sold out.
So is the one after that.
And the next flight arrives too late.
But – yes! – the 12pm train has limited space left. I click on it, put in my details, and-
£124!
But it’s either that or not going on a heavy metal adventure.
I bolt to Glasgow Queen Street Station and jump onto train to Edinburgh, my heart racing, knees complaining and £124 lighter – but it’s happening. I’m on the train and we’re back on track (pun absolutely intended).
With half an hour to kill in Edinburgh, I nip across the road to calm down with the strongest possible coffee I can get, check my phone, and-
And the original train from Glasgow to London has left.
AND will get in earlier than my new train.
But not to worry – time limits and personal stakes are what make an adventure.
I step onto the next train and it’s packed. Cue standing for the next 2 hours getting far too acquainted with every person who squeezes past.
Eventually I get a seat from York onwards. The minutes fly past and I worry that I’m not going to make the gig on time.
The train pulls into King’s Cross, and London rises up around me. A mad dash through the Underground – with a few brief nods to others in Metallica t-shirts – and I eventually step up into daylight.
I have – at most – one hour to check into the hotel, then reach the stadium to see the band.
With the Mission: Impossible theme music playing in my head, I go to the check-in desk and speak to the guy there. Name, breakfast, duration, all good, yes, yes, let’s get on with it.
“There’s free Wi-Fi,” he says.
“Great.”
“And the password is…”
Then he pauses.
And is still paused.
“There is no password.”
Wow. What an emotional rollercoaster.
I get to my room, chuck my bags in, call my wife (as I am contractually obliged to do) and then head off.
The subways are full of Metallica t-shirts – a horde of us, all strangers but united for a common purpose. It’s like going to a football match except everybody supports the same team.
Massive smile on my face, I arrive just in time to catch the end of the second support band. When Metallica hit the stage, it feels like all of London cheers them – just a sheer expression of joy, everyone there for the same reason and having a great time. Fantastic.
Worth the panic, worth the stress, worth the extra £124.
On Saturday, with no Metallica gig, I kill time in an old pub deciding what to do with my day. For some inexplicable reason, every toilet seat in the pub has been removed. Not coincidentally, it’s the only pub I’ve been to where taking a dump actually makes the place cleaner.
As I say, travelling for concerts is a great reason to check out a city for a couple of days, and London has a ton to offer. Should I visit Buckingham Palace? The Adelphi Theatre? Westminster Abbey?
Anyway, I go and see a Metallica tribute band. They play in Camden Underworld, my first time there – and, with 8 quid pints, probably my last.
The crowd filters past me, everyone buzzing and talking about the Friday night show. Hundreds of complete strangers from all over the world, all united by a common purpose – exchanging stories from the road, talking about their favourite moments from other tours, geeking out over the songs, the memories. Beautiful.
I stand up, nudge the table, and a tiny drop of beer trickles out – about £3.50, by my reckoning. The tribute band are almost as good as the real thing, the crowd just as enthusiastic in this tiny club as they were in the vast London Stadium.
Ears ringing, I head back to the hotel, already excited for the second full-on Metallica show the next day… And the subway blazes past my stop.
What?
I check the map on the station wall and it turns out I was supposed to go one stop and make a change – I didn’t have to make any changes on the way there and I don’t know what portal magic keeps the London Underground working, but sure enough, it gets me home safe and sound.
On the Sunday, I had plans to see my cousin and her wife. An easy, relaxing afternoon to kill before the second Metallica gig. I put the meeting place into Google Maps and follow it to Old Street tube station, go down the stairs…
…and then up another set of stairs and straight outside because in the thirteen seconds it took to get to the subway station, Maps suddenly realises it sent me in completely the wrong direction.
London is huge, and bustling, and everything is always on the go, but the public transport is so efficient that even if you get on the wrong bus or the wrong tube stop, you’re never far from getting back on track (pun only half-intended).
I know this because I get on the wrong bus on my way to Soho – and can’t even blame Google Maps for that. But not to worry; common sense dictates that all you need to do is cross the road and go to the opposite bus stop to go back the way you came, which is exactly what I did.
It’s only when I check in on my old pal Googy M and realise it says the bus stop isn’t active that I figure common sense is overrated.
I don’t know what’s going on with wee Googy Mapmeister, because now he’s telling me to go back to the tube station that he originally told me to walk through, turn around, and go back the way I came.
So that’s what I do.
I head for the tube station.
I cross the road.
Even wait for the green man.
But then I see a bus approaching.
A bus that says it’ll get me to where I need to go.
Yet Malton Goggins is telling me that the bus stop is inactive.
What do I do?
My heart’s racing.
I’m running late.
Do I keep going to the tube station and risk being told to turn back again?
Or do I turn back and wait at the bus stop, stick my hand out and risk looking like a wally?
I run back across the road, salute the green man, accidentally complete Couch To 5K, and…
Get on the bus.
Victory!
The bus stop has fulfilled its primary function in that a bus has physically stopped next to it. Someone should explain that to Giggle O’Mapster.
A thoroughly pleasant lunch with thoroughly pleasant company and even more thoroughly pleasant Guinness follows, after which it’s time to see Metallica again.
They did not disappoint.
What a show.
What a *pair* of shows.
Pure, unadulterated, joyful heavy metal. Music is magic, you see; you arrive in one state of being and leave in another. If that’s not magic, I don’t know what it is.
Well, could be Guinness, but you know what I mean.
And because I’d done it a couple of days ago, I knew exactly how to get home without consulting Google Maps, which would probably have advised me to walk straight through a wall, yank a sword from a stone or solve a fairy princess’s magic riddle.
I follow the tide of Metallica t-shirts spilling out of London Stadium, every single person wearing massive grins on their face. Everyone squeezes onto the trains but I’m in no rush – this is the easy part. No deadlines. No stress. The carriage is abuzz with happy metalheads.
I get off the train, and the crowds thin and go their separate ways – that invisible connection of common purpose slowly dissipating. There’s a bus in a few minutes that stops directly outside my hotel, where I’ll chill out, have a bite, and f̶u̶l̶f̶i̶l̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶b̶l̶o̶o̶d̶ ̶s̶w̶o̶r̶n̶ ̶p̶a̶c̶t̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ check in with my wife.
Except forty million police cars have surrounded a car and closed the road off.
No buses.
I sigh and consult with Sir Guggel of Mapadonia; he tells me that that all is well, there is a train from Liverpool Street Station that’ll take me straight home – all I have to do is hop on the Northern Line.
Phew. I’d be lost without Google maps. Quite often lost WITH Google maps.
Especially since the Northern Line doesn’t go through Liverpool Street Station.
I check Transport For London – which, to be fair, I should have done at the start. It confirms that the only way back to the hotel is…
Bus.
Walking it is, then.
I check the best route; Google Maps advises a hop, skip, and cartwheel up the road.
When I lie down, I fall asleep right away, ears ringing. It’s not always plain sailing – or flying, driving or walking, for that matter – but it is always worth it.
