I've lost my mind.
No. Really. I have.
You see I've only just decided that I'm desperate to see these boys:
You may recall an earlier post of mine which touched upon this subject. If you're a long-time reader of this blog, you may even recall my history with the Spandau boys, which dates back quite a long way.
So why not just go and buy a ticket, I hear you ask?
If only it were that simple.
Actually, it is. I have a credit card. I could put a ticket on that. And I'm sure there'd be one or two mates who would lower their standards to accompany me out for the night.
However, in the first instance, I am trying to save money. And watching a tubby, sweaty Tony Hadley jump around the stage would probably give me the same sense of impending doom I felt while watching a tubby, sweaty Simon Le Bon jump around the stage a few years ago when Duran Duran supported Robbie Williams. Not to mention make me question just why I worked my ass off to earn enough money to pay for the ticket.
In fact, if it wasn't for the fact John Taylor looked as gorgeous that day as he did back in his heyday, I probably would have taken myself off to the bar until Robbie came on stage.
Don't believe me? Compare if you will:
Admit it. He's still totally do-able. Probably even more so now that he's stopped wearing so much make-up and filled out a bit.
But I digress.
Sorry about that.
Excuse me while I just go and splash some cold water on my face.
Well, anyway, in the second instance, my lovely friend who was the ticketing exec at Rod Laver Arena has left. He's the one who got me freebies for Liza. (You know, Liza. With a 'Z'. She was bonkers in the extreme, but very entertaining). And the two lovely friends who were in the running to take over the job from him didn't get it. Bugger.
So my opportunity for a sneaky freebie has gone by the wayside somewhat.
Thirdly, all the standing tix are sold out already. And whilst I was willing to fork out $149.90 for a standing ticket (the reasoning being I could quite conceivably, with a bit of pushing and shoving, get myself close enough to the stage to slip Steve Norman my phone number), the thought of sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair for the whole gig doesn't fill me with much joy. I need to dance at this gig. Or at the very least bounce around on the floor.
What to do? What to do?
I'll cut it short there and go and ponder some more.