Earlier this year, a journalist friend excitedly informed me that, in a frantic internet scramble, he had managed to get two tickets to see David Cameron’s favourite artist, the ex-Smiths front man Morrissey. (I’ve always been slightly bemused by Cameron’s love affair with Morrissey, especially considering the singer’s famous comment, ‘The sorrow of the Brighton bombing is that Thatcher escaped unscathed’.) Did I fancy going?
I did. Except that the gig was in Bradford, and on a school night to boot. To gee me up, my friend sent an email saying, ‘The sheer madness of going to Bradford for a concert appeals to me.’ I thought, ‘Yes — that makes no sense at all. Let’s do it.’
Gunning up the motorway, the conversation flowed easily across the latest plot twists on Coalition Street, to hot bands and cool movies, and the sat nav delivered us to St George’s Hall in Bradford just in time for this time slip to my twenties.
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