P!nk i

Last night the three of us trundled to the Brighton Centre, and courtesy of L’s contact there, proceeded inside. The concert was Pink – one of P’s favourites, and her first pop concert. L’s contact had done us proud, we were escorted up to the VIP area – a private box with comfy chairs. Very swish, though we were still fleeced for drinks and a programme.

The show was good, R’n’B free, with lots of camp sub-Goldfrappery (sexy dancers, costume changes, aerial gymnastics on those silky bits of cloth like on the old BBC idents, and so on). L & I ended up enjoying it hugely; the privacy of the box meant that I could move my bulk back and forth in a pitiful parody of “dance” without being seen, while L and P flounced around fetchingly.

As we looked down on the heaving full house below it dawned on me just how much I would have loathed jumping around in that mass of people. “Gosh I’ve got old” I thought ruefully as we headed to the lifts after the encores and the buttons were pushed for us by a smiling attendant who had guarded our upper floor. As we descended to the lower floors we were joined in the lift by a poor young teenage girl bravely cringing with pain from a twisted? sprained? broken? ankle and a black eye and being wheelchaired out by the St. Johns. Poor thing, she’d have been better off in a box upstairs.


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