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the dodgy looks I’m getting from the blonde on one side of me and the bob haircut on the other. Never mind that I’m winded. I don’t care. I’m where I need to be and for the first time today, I’m happy. I’m so happy I’m here. This is where it’s all going to happen. I’m going to sing the loudest. I’m going to stretch my hand out the farthest. He’s going to notice me.

The opening act, Beckon Gallow, is rubbish. Like a load of little boys jumping around demanding sweets. But I guess we all expected that. No one is here to see them, anyway — they are just the last hurdle between us and the heaven that is The Regulators.
    I’m crammed in like a cow in a pen. The other cows pinned in around me surge forward. I have to go with them — there’s nothing else I can do, unless I signal to one of the Yellow T-shirt Guys at the front to pull me out, but only desperation calls for that and I’m not giving up yet. Not until I’ve seen Jackson. A crowd-surfer kicks my head as he passes over the top of us, but I can’t complain. Water is thrown at us from the front like we’re starving orphans. At one point, a jet of water squirts me hard in the face, I assume to cool me down, but it just makes me temporarily blind.
    Smiley
Shining
Twin must have attached herself to me. Every time I turn around I see her.
    “This is amazing!” she screams in my ear.
    I blink the water out of my eyes and nod as she flings a plastic cup of ice-cold water over her head. I don’t think it’s amazing at all. I’ve queued all day in the freezing cold and now I’m penned in like I’m waiting to be slaughtered, mooing along with the rest of them. I’m not even watching the opening band anymore — I’m concentrating on not passing out. Somehow I’ve drifted away from the front barrier and that hallowed row in front of Jackson and the catchment area for his sweat or his spit and now I’m all at sea and there’s nothing to hold on to.
    Then it happens. The best part of the day so far. The opening act, can’t even remember their name now, announces “This is our last song . . .” and everyone in the place goes mad and starts cheering, but the crush on my rib cage gets about ten degrees worse. Their last song is fast and frenetic and suddenly we’re so excited to be seeing the back of them, we all start headbanging and jumping around like epileptics on pogo sticks. Sweat is pouring into my eyes because I still have my thick fleece on. The eBay shirt underneath has become another layer of my skin. There’s a mist above the mosh pit — a mist of hot body odor and teen hormones run amok. The song comes to an abrupt halt and everyone cheers. They go off and the stage goes black.
    “Wooooo-hoooooooo!” screams Smiley
Shining
Twin. I realize then that I’m pretty much deaf but for a dull audience murmur and a tiny mouse screaming somewhere inside my inner ear. The herd relaxes back and I can start wriggling out of my sweltering fleece.
    Nothing happens for ages. A roadie appears every now and again to twiddle knobs on the amps. Then the curtain at the back is lifted and, in that instant, the stage triples in size. A huge, sparkling new drum kit appears at the back and everyone cheers again. Jael’s drum kit.
    More roadies appear, placing mic stands to the left and right of the stage for Lenny and Pash and one right in the center. The center where Jackson’s going to be, any moment now. I’m going to see him. I’m craning my calves trying to stand on tiptoes the whole time, desperate to get the first glimpse of him when he comes on. I’m passed a plastic cup with an inch of ice-cold water in it.
    Amps are hefted around, switches are checked, someone runs from the left side to the right, talking into a CB radio for no apparent reason, and a wiry woman comes on and sets up a six-pack of lagers on the edge of the drum platform and two large bottles of water on the amps. Another cheer goes up. Those are Pash’s lagers.