Taking a stroll down the docks in the early afternoon, we pinpointed the location of the big top tent that hosts the Summer Pops season, passing what looked like a lone fan, a girl of about 20, slumped against a gate in the searing sun. What she was waiting for I don't know, but we couldn't help wondering what sadness occupied her consciousness if she was prepared to camp out for an ageing pop duo two decades past the height of its teen magnetism.
After an enjoyable afternoon in the city centre, we made our way to the show. Our first glimpse of fans had us chuckling to ourselves. It seems like the PSBs are big with grotesquely freakish middle-aged abominations in this neck of the woods for we passed a trio who had not only decided to go to the Sodom and Gomorrah Show, but had actually been to the real thing and survived to tell the tale. Yes, they looked that debauched and that old. Think ancient American wrestlers, all wrinkled topless bodies and dyed goatees topped off with painted nails and sundry piercings. And that was just the men.
So, on to the freak show we went. Remarkably, the PSBs also seem rather popular with fantastically overweight women who insist on squeezing their articulated buttocks into the tightest of shrink-to-fit jeans. It takes all types, I suppose.
Then, thankfully, we hit the throng. After this bizarre re-introduction to PSB fandom, the sheer drab mundanity of the crowd hit home. Weirdly normal or normally weird, your description depended on perspective. The number of high-spirited septugenarians provoked the fleeting thought that I'd stumbled on Bingo's Big Night Out, but as the numbers swelled, the average age dropped enough to suggest that, at worst, I'd taken a wrong turn and inadvertently ended up at a facelift convention.
Once inside, the grannies made their way to the loos, though a colostomy bag or two must surely have made its entrance to the big top, and a few pre-teen kids arrived with their parents to dispel any notions that we'd be the youngest people there.
Waiting inside the tent in the foyer, Your Funny Uncle and Samantha wafted in, strode obliviously past us, and didn't bother saying hello. Fair enough... Your hat was interesting, Rob. Cletus meets Cletus?
Finally, after being herded around the stalls by boredom, we entered the main performance area. It was like going to the circus, but this time the freaks were in the stalls, rather than on the stage. We took our seats - five rows from the front of the stage - and endured some middle-aged bint's ramblings with two nonentities behind her. "You either love the Pet Shop Boys or you don't" she waffled, with all the gravitas of Bet Lynch's ugly sister. The strangers behind her told of how they had to watch their PSB videos on the quiet when "the missus goes out, because she hates them." Of course, that had nothing to do with their admiration for recent performances by Phil Collins and Peter Gabriel. Yes, it was that kind of crowd.
Three bloated Scouse windbags maneouvred their enormous beer guts into the row in front with their slappery totty in tow. "We'll hit the road after the first few songs," blurted Franky Four-Bellies, "I couldn't tolerate any more than a half-hour of these." Delightfully, they couldn't tolerate 15 minutes, and were away before Suburbia's closing notes pumped out of one of the worst sound systems I've ever had the misfortune to be blown away by.
Prior to all of that, Client hit the stage with the arena less than half full. At their best, Client are great. Sadly, their worst is unlistenably embarrassing. It has to be said, the amplification didn't help. The tip of my nose vibrated at every early beat. Sarah sings with great confidence, but her coarse vulgarity is buttock-clenchingly cringeworthy and provokes pregnant pauses in an audience accustomed to a higher standard of filth. I didn't know whether to feel embarrassed or sad for them, because their best moments were memorable. There's only so much tough Northern lass in leather sassiness you can take before you yearn for something a little more rewarding. And Dubstar were so promising...
After another interval, Neil and Chris deigned to arrive less than 15 minutes late - a record in my time watching them. Men in white overalls signalled a higher form of entertainment, and the entrance of our heroes was as spectacularly understated as ever. Es Devlin's transparent Rubix Cube works as a counterbalancing visual, but all eyes were on Neil and Chris despite the arresting imagery projected throughout the show. Doppelgangers emerged through the cut-outs when we expected Neil and Chris, and after some momentary teasing, the main men decided to come around the sides instead. Talk about deliberately deflating expectancy.
Psychological was an unusual choice to start proceedings, but it worked well with Neil seeming all robotic and somewhat trance-like. Standard renditions of Left to My Own Devices, Suburbia, I'm With Stupid, and the rest followed, with Rent capturing my attention thanks to a lovely synthline added for the tour. Numb was a surprise, perhaps an attempt to test crowd's reaction - or mood - following it's airing on the television in the wake of England's footballing defeat. Neil sounded as surprised as any to see it on the box. Sodom brought the house down, its tackiness suiting the ambience, while Integral capped off a thrilling cameo, sandwiching Opportunities for the show's highest emotional peak.
It's A Sin and Go West brought a truly joyous celebration to a stellar climax, and, of course, we all bought Neil's throwaway assertion that we'd been the best audience of the tour. Sure, I bet you say that to all the boys...
Drico.
