A THOUSAND or so years ago, in a different time, I was nuts about live music. As well as a general obsession with gigs, I had an untrammelled love for three bands in particular.
One of the joys was an excuse to travel to see them play abroad, twin loves combined – a new place and live music. The Irish band I adored in a Slovakian airfield; the American band I’d grown up with, live in London; the singer-songwriter I adored in the grand State Theatre in Sydney.
Ok, that last is a slight exaggeration. I was already in Sydney. If I think about it, he came to me.
One of these bands was performing in Dublin, which was considerate of them as I had a friend nearby to visit and another friend keen to chum me on the trip. It would be a glorious weekend, all in.
The best laid plans, and all that. My friend cancelled at the last minute so I was stuck with an extra ticket for a sell out gig. I decided to offer it on one of the band’s online message boards and very quickly had a taker.
We arranged to meet at a pub opposite the venue so that I could hand over the ticket to the chap. Things quickly began to gang agley. He seemed to think we were going to the gig together. He was the goose barnacle and I was the hard, unforgiving surface he clung to, despite no give or warmth.
The next day he turned up at my hotel and offered to take me on a tour of the city.
Long story short, I was very young and an idiot and had a skewed sense of the importance of good manners so I acquiesced and went for a walk around the sights.
I noticed that at every point of entry or exit to a building he would go to lengths to ensure he didn’t touch any surfaces, using tissues or his jumper cuffs or his coat. He would ask me to open doors for him and when we stopped for coffee, he had me wipe down his cup for him.
He asked me to come with him to fill his car with petrol as he didn’t want me to touch the petrol pump. I felt sorry for him, and also wondered if he only took the gig ticket in order to have someone facilitate the filling of his tank.
Now, of course, I would recognise he might have obsessive compulsive disorder but at the time these things weren’t really in the public consciousness and I found it only bizarre that someone would be so uncomfortable with germs.
During the pandemic, though, I have found real fellow feeling with that chap. Every time I’ve copied his cuff trick to avoid a door handle or jimmied something open with a foot, I’ve wondered about him and how he’s getting on.
Now I have gloves in my car to avoid touching petrol pumps. I feel a bit dizzy when I see people press the button at a pedestrian crossing. Shop assistants have kept the change from a tenner because I don’t want to handle cash.
I imagine I’ll relax eventually but this new found discomfort around shared surfaces and the groundhog day of skin stripping hand washing seems fairly embedded for now.
Last weekend I had my first proper night out since the start of the pandemic. There was music, there was dancing, there were drinks. There were no masks, a lot of shouting over the music and a cash-only bar.
Being out and seeing people and dancing was wonderful. I love dancing, I especially love it at 3am when it’s a bastion against the world and all its troubles.
But while I was happy enough, my treacherous heart wasn’t fully in it, not quite ready for the viruses and bacteria and sweat of other people floating between bodies and tickling nostrils.
I had a holiday, finally, to go on and it didn’t feel worth the risk. Instead of high heels, I could have been at home on the sofa.
That’s a new feeling. Pre-pandemic I barely saw the inside of my flat.
I’ve lived in it for 10 years and finally painted during the pandemic because the magnolia of the last resident was unbearable at long stretches. I had hardly had time to notice it before.
I’m not alone in wanting to stay at home, it seems. The trade body UKHospitality has reported that no-shows at sport and music events are at 15 per cent while that rises to as much as 20 per cent at restaurants.
Recently the restaurant group Gusto Italian said it had 1000 no-shows in one week across its 12 restaurants. The colloquialism is Hogo – the hassle of going out.
People are apparently failing to turn up even when they’ve bought a ticket to an event and are far more likely to cancel last minute on friends.
It’s no wonder modern manners have changed during the pandemic.
We’ve become comfortable and complacent on our sofas. From feeling fed up and hemmed in, now there’s a choice of going out or recreating a night out at home, many people are choosing to stay in.
You can recreate a cinematic experience at home without dealing with chumps along the row who can’t put their phones away.
You can have a five star meal at home without getting soaked at the train station on the way in to town. You can, like me, simply not feel ready to mingle with uncontrollable strangers.
There’s sense in evaluating past behaviour – going out for the sake of it, overstretching yourself with too many social events.
An increase in people preferring to stay at home is all understandable, bar the lack of manners. The hospitality sector has suffered enough without people now booking and failing to show up.
Covid has been the ideal excuse for last minute cancellations but we shouldn’t get used to having a cover for being inconsiderate.
I’ve gone from one extreme to the other – fomo (fear of missing out) to hogo – and I’m hoping eventually to find a bit of balance.
My party shoes are waiting, as are some new year gig tickets. If anyone’s asking, I’ll be dancing.
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