There’s always one isn’t there
Slopping beer all over his shoes
He’s jostling for position
Hand secure upon the barrier
But his shoulders aren’t quite through
Because a fangirl, already half cut
Is hogging space for two
Arms are sleeves of coloured ink
Hair is blonde and striped in pink
Boobs are large and cupped in lace…
He might try conversation
“I love your tats; the skull, the eagle
the waves that wash across that fish…”
She flicks her hair across his face
Flashing eyes like glazy treacle
Swigs her pint, drenches his shoe
Budges up to let him through

Exhaling words of amber hops
In wispy tones at his lobe
She tells of watching every show
“I’m always down the front
Spare a thought,” she suggests
Eyes transfixed on amps and rigs
“for the guys who risk their lives
I’ve been up there and I have seen
The underpaid who never rest.
Coiled in cables, burned, dog tired
Blinded, deafened and hot wired
Lost in circuits, lights, transformers
Steering sound on fast food diets
Crushed by structures
Fixing risers
Skilled in light and bespoke pyro
I climbed up high and saw them all
Wrapped in miles of trusty gaffer
The riggers, techies, leccies and crew
The steadfast, deadpan
Poor security man.”
She sighs in wispy amber tones
Eyes all flashing glazy
Treacle pools reflecting

So impressed, he concurs
Then thinking back to boobs in lace
He might try conversation…
But amps reverb and drown the chance
Arm hairs rigid and entranced
There’s no time now to be so blunt
As dry ice shrouds his fangirl…
His feet are feeling light as air
It’s just as though she wasn’t there
His shoe is dry, but how? And why?
As darkness cloaks his fangirl…
Exhaling words of amber hops
In wispy tones at his lobe
“You’ll catch me watching every show
I’m always down the front.”