In February, I said no to Oasis tickets. I was a fool.
A reunion I’d longed for half my lifetime, and apparently, I did not want to attend.
But the reality was, for a brief moment, I let my disability get the better of me.
When I was able-bodied, I was Queen of the concert. I lived for live music. Front stage and centre, it was my safe space and my favourite place.
By the time I became disabled, I’d seen 250 sets from artists. Hit up at least three festivals every summer and side hustled as a bouncer.
I repeat, I lived for live music.
To me, there’s no better feeling than being in a crowd, covered in the pints and the piss, singing the chorus of songs you’ve loved for a lifetime.
All the riff raff and the rebels together become friends for one night only. Arms around each other, sitting on the shoulders of strangers.
Disabled seating can often feel segregated from the chaos. To the side or far back, out of sight and out of mind.
And for me, concerts already come with a load of grief.
It’s hard not to spend the show thinking about pre-wheelie G and where she’d be, wishing I too were in amongst it all. It’s confronting, and it catches me out.
When tickets went on sale, I thought that sadness would overshadow Oasis, as it has with other experiences before.
So I said no.
But the months rolled on.
And in those months, I’ve taken to stages, holding my own microphone, speaking about running marathons and booking tickets.
Telling people to make choices that leave no regret.
And I duly noted, I had not followed my own advice.
Seeing the gap, not the gain. Living in the wrong story.
What the f*** was I doing? This was not me. It. Was. Not. G.
Wednesday rolled around, and I made the call.
And by some miracle (or manifestation), there was an Oasis ticket spare for me.
I paid my money and made my choice, with two days to prepare for the show of a lifetime. But because my sister and boyfriend had their standing tickets since February.
I was attending, and sitting, alone.
And a whole new experience in itself. My first gig sober AND solo.
But in words immortalised by the icons themselves,
you gotta roll with it.
It was everything. Iconic & Emotional.
A crowd of 80 000 that’s waited so long for something no one was sure would ever happen.
You could sense it in the energy and I loved every second. Even from the “sidelines”.
A core memory, created from the first beat to the last, I am so f***ing glad I came my senses in time.
Note to self: watching from sidelines is still better than missing the show altogether. Book the bloody ticket.
Oh and music is life.
