We finally arrive, about an hour before doors open; it takes ages to find somewhere to park. Everything either is either an abandoned factory or warehouse outlet or looks like a squat or drug den, I don’t think I’ve seen anywhere look quite so much as a relic of industry. We finally manage to leave the car somewhere – my Dad constantly muttering to himself that the windows are going to get smashed – and make our way to the Apollo.
As I see the sea of people huddled around it I know that I have found the place that is truly my world. There are a lot Placebo shirts, some positively vintage and some that look they were only brought that day. It would be hard to say what the average hair colour was; pink, blue, green, jet black, bleached blonde, name any shade and someone here will have it. Every generation is represented, I hear snatches of French and German, we are a truly international gathering. There is a very strong smell of weed which faintly annoys me; it’s such a cliché that the alternative are into drugs and I hate the idea that we’ve submitted ourselves as a stereotype.
I drink my drink in about a second and wait impatiently for it to turn seven. Two old men come over to my Mum and me and try to chat her up and she laughs that it’s been a long time since anybody did that. However, I’m not taken by the idea of drunken men leering over us and convince my parents that it’s time to leave. They say that they’ll be in McDonalds, the only source of civilisation (us freaks aside) that’s remotely close to the venue, tell me to take care and enjoy myself and they’ll see me later.