Once bought two Chemical Brothers tickets to the tune of £100, assuming at least one of my mates would be up for going with me. But no. They ummed and ahhed for a couple months and the one person who finally agreed then forgot about it on the actual day - for fucks sake - and I was also really hungover - fucks sake.
They were physical tickets and I could have sold them but they were at my house in Woodford, and the gig was in Hammersmith. I was expecting to ask my friend, who was also my housemate, to bring them out with her and I’d meet her straight from work, but now that wasn’t an option. I’d have to travel an hour home just to get them and then an hour and half back to Hammersmith to sell the cunts, and then I’d have to go home again. That’s about five hours travelling.
I went home, got the tickets and pointedly ripped them up into tiny pieces and chucked them in the bin. At that point I’d had enough and didn't care but it stings now, looking back.
Oh and between the ages of 17–25 I’d spend around £20–60 a week on skunk. At its peak it was closer to £60 most weeks. I’m just glad it didn’t irreparably destroy my brain to the point where I’d become some sort of insufferable wank bleating away on the internet about single episodes of a cartoon from 25 years ago.
