You're walking from the Fisbury Park station to the gates, ticket in hand and high expectations of the day, after all you have been waiting way over a year and a half for this very day. All just for the chance of seeing his bald little head.
People just don't get it. They don't see what you say in the older, balder man.
By the time your thoughts have finished leading astray you're already at the front of the queue showing your ticket and then pocketing it in your coat.
As you start to walk towards to the large body of people, you notice a couple of stage crew workers messing with two microphones on the bare stage.
You decide to spend the remainder of the time with airpods placed in ears and "Somebody stole me bottle" blaring.
