From a petty tweet to middle of the mosh pit, Tuesday was a wild night…
7am. Wake up. Stuck on the kettle. Brush my teeth. Do the daily scroll of social media, see whats happening in the chaos of UK politics, and then a Facebook notification opens up. ‘An event you’re interested in is happening today – The Chats O2 Ritz’
The loudest groan comes out of my mouth, ‘Fuckkk I didn’t manage to get tickets.’ I say glaring at that little condescending blue star. Bloody lovely start to the day. So as a 20 year-old what do I do about it? Tweet about my regrets, shouting my sorrows into the void. Or so I thought.
Few hours later, mid lecture. My phone pings, ‘Hey, just saw your tweet, I can try and get you in?’’ You bet I jumped at the chance. After an email or two, some 11:11 wishes and a cheeky prayer to the man upstairs, the fateful email arrives in my inbox. ‘See you tonight on the door!’ Bloody lovely twist of events. Delete my thirst-trapping tweet, because who wants a history of being whiny on their timeline, duh, and begin to plan my last minute transport to the Ritz.
8:00pm. Race down Oxford Road, dashing between the commuters and speeding Ubers. Denim. Leather. Metal. The line to the Ritz is flooded in a sea of punk chic, with the occasional mullet confirming you were on the right path. Out of the cold and into the glowing warmth, inside was filled with a sea of red. Faced with a backdrop resembling the infamous shittysimpsonstattoos insta, the nitty and gritty style of The Chats was apparent. Buzzing with anticipation, and with the hoards of Manchester pushing me into the barrier, I was too excited for the show.
9:29pm. Red lights dim, and ‘We are The Champions’ by Queen blares out the speaker. In true Aussie fashion, from a jeer to the lovable phrase ‘Hello you Mancunian cunts’, they arrived in style.
For the next hour, thrashing guitars, guttural screams and songs about the clap stormed the stage. Thrown shoes, jumpers, and pints a dozen littered the venue, making the floor an overflowing puddle. But like Debbie Reynolds, I was dancing in the yellow-coloured rain. Fan favourite ‘Smoko’ brought the house down, and how the floor didn’t collapse, I honestly don’t know. Halfway through, like the Spanish inquisition, Crocodylus jumped from over the drums and behind the speakers, taking over the performance while the Chats jump into a sea of their adoring fans. They truly brought the punk to the North West.
As the last chord rings out, the last swear of the night is screamed, and the last set list is thrown out, I finally leave the venue, limping still from my luxury mosh pit getaway. The Chats didn’t disappoint and honestly, could they ever? As I hobble down the road, all I can think is ‘Thank god for that tweet, maybe I should be a bit petty more often.’