TEN WHEEZES TO GET YOU INTO GIGS FOR **** ALL.
1) Phone up the concert hall, saying your're from the local free
advertiser rag and you want to do a whopping great feature on the venue,
but you can only make it along tonight, so you "might as well" see the
band as well. (Good for those with the gift 'o' gab.)
2) Alternatively, find out the name of the local paper's poncey old
rock 'critic' as they're always on the guest list. Use it early in the
evening while said hack is still being a monsterous old wino down the pub
3) Swipe your big bro's "LED ZEP WORLD TOUR 73" T-shirt, stuff a pillow
down the front for a wobbly beergut. Then wipe yourself down with a
greasy old sock, pour brown ale down your trousers and pass yourself
off as a roadie.
4) Find out which pub the band are getting sloshed in before the show,
swagger in looking mournful saying "well I used to go and see blah, blah
all the time when they played down the Dog and Cuttlefish, but MAN! The
ticket prices now... not like the old days... moan, gripe...". Bands are
complete suckers for pleasing long standing fans, will feel all guilty
about "selling out", and will instantly give you a back-stage pass so
you can go and drink their beer and fondle their groupies.
5) Leggit round and round the concert hall, find the toilet window,
clamber through, find it's the girlies loo and get brutally thrown out
for being a collosal pervvie.
6) Stand outside grovelling like a good 'un for "spare change". Get
pee'd off after you collect just 39p (and a greek coin). Beat up a small
person and steal their ticket.
7) Gather together a band of oppressed type punters, storm the
"imperialist lackeys" shouting old beardo politico cliches, while the
kids take a good hammering from the bouncers sneak in and lose one
million karma points.
8) Spot some bod flogging unofficial band merchandise outside, tell the
security (who'll proceed to chase him down the road with baseball bats),
then get a pat on the head and a free entry for being a dirty grass.
9) Start blubbing and crying in front of the queue outside until some
foxy chick takes pity on you and gives you a spare ticket (and a bit
of the other later if your're a lucky cuss).
10) If all else fails, phone the venue, saying your're a mad-as-a-brush
veggie bomber or something and that you've planted a monumental
incendiary device in the building. You don't get to see the show but
neither does any other bastard.
