The Bollocks
Magnus the Viking had arrived in the hotel the day before to establish the fans.net beachhead and despite nearly being ejected for passing out after heroic indulgences in the early hours of the morning with No Bull blasting out at full volume from his room, contact was made and meetings arranged. Magnus’s mission was to enter The Bollocks and secure places at the bar so that refreshments were readily available. Preventing dehydration is key to the success of any expedition. To everyone’s disgust his reconnaissance had established that The Bollocks bar did not open until 7pm. Just what kind of hellhole had we stumbled into? Thankfully the hashish clouded tight backstreets of Barcelona were littered with small refreshment outlets and we were able to overcome our first major setback. Having refreshed ourselves quite considerably we began our advance on our goal. No refreshment outlet was ignored in our relentless progress through the alleyways of the city.
Azel, the wise old wizard of the team, suggested that it was time to make base camp and take on board some solid provisions. He had spotted a wonderful ‘eatery’ specialising in Indian food that provided refreshments in glasses the size of buckets. . All members of the party were eventually satisfied that this was a sensible course of action despite some initial reservations centering on the point of taking on board solids, and whether they would only serve to slow us down. A wonderful hour ensued in the company of the colourful natives situated in the heart of Barcelona’s scenic prostitution district.
We had received information which indicated that only fucking idiots would try to scale the mountainous approach to the Estadi Olímpic de Montjuic Lluís Companys. Shuzbut, a near native of Barcelona, firmly recommended taking a taxi as any attempt without significant endurance training and Alpine climbing expertise was doomed to failure. We immediately began our ascent under the unremitting heat of the Spanish sun, pausing only briefly as we entered the palm wreathed foothills to relieve our heavily laden bladders. Onwards and upwards we strove, clawing and crawling our way up the near sheer face of the hostile terrain, ignoring the gasps, cries and despairing glances of the Catalonians as they drove past us in their air conditioned taxis. Even such an elite force as we were had begun doubt our ability to successfully accomplish our task when, as all hope seemed lost, we emerged pissed and filthy from the undergrowth to a sight only those who have truly suffered could appreciate. There nestling, like a new born panda cub in its proud mother’s arms, against the stone side of the stadium was a beautiful, beautiful bar. Not since Ice Cold In Alex (look it up) has a cold beer been so appreciated.
The Palm Wreathed Foothills
Quickly ensconcing ourselves in a defensive ring of chairs we tried to make contact with our German allies. Thankfully they had heard of our travails and rushed to our sides to offer us their support and cigarettes. We replied in kind by offering them some of Magnus’ weird Nordic tobacco teabags. Having secured a constant stream of refreshment and taken over the musical accompaniment we led our new Spanish, Norwegian, British and German friends in a good old fashioned singalong.
“You can stick your golden handshake and you can stick your silly rules,
And all the other shit that you teach to kids in school.”
How the locals loved us and our quaint ways. Majestically with an hour still remaining before the gates to the stadium opened we had drunk the bar dry. I would like to thank everyone present for their superlative efforts in achieving this memorable feat.
As the chant rose in volume it was drowned out by wild cheers of motherfuckingabandon as the screens burst into life, a
medium sized country’s stock of explosives was detonated and ACFUCKINGDC smashed into our lives once more. Rock Or Bust passed in a heartbeat and as Shoot To Thrill levelled the land, beer and bodily fluids filled the air. Every single song flew by with barely time to take in its wondrous perfection, HAABPTB, BIB, PB, DDDDC. The stage setting is the greatest AC/DC have ever had and Thunderstruck was augmented by an incredible display from Cosmo Wilson and his team. High Voltage was a total joy and as the crowd gave everything they had , Angus and the boys gave even more back. I have never seen Ang throw so much into wrestling out every last slash of lightning from his guitar. Fluid and ferocious he gave everything he had to us. Brian was clearly blown away by the crowd and could be seen saying “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” at the end of Highway To Hell. At one point Angus just stared at the crowd in seeming amazement at the complete ecstacy his band was creating. Absolute highlight of the gig was Sin City, even in a setlist no other band in the world could hope to match this tune stood out, from the hammering chords as it smashed into its stride to the moment at the end of the solo when Ang squeezed and shook the SG to see if it could give anymore the song was a titan. HADOM was a monster and then they pulled out the really big guns. TNT, WLR and LTBR. All magnificent, all deafening, all matched by the crowd. Encores followed but they didn’t need to, we had witnessed rock and roll in all its glory, in its most perfect form, also we were really fucking knackered. HTH and FTATR were a massive party. The whole night was a massive party.
But every party has to end. We left the confines of stadium behind us, leaving also our German comrades who we will see again, our new Spanish friends and in the case of Magnus, possibly our lovers. Quite what had happened to our Viking I’m not sure we will ever truly know. As we descended the mountain he was unusually quiet and pensive, upon reaching our first refreshment spot he ordered a rather ladylike cocktail type confection, which we believe was something called a “Gin and Tonic”. You can see from the photo a significant change had come over him. Putting that to one side we marched triumphantly back through the backstreets and alleyways of Barcelona musing on the night we had experienced. We had overcome incredible obstacles, achieved things many had previously thought were impossible for mortal men. The night was ours.
Magnus. A changed man.
Unfortunately events took a sudden and nearly tragic turn for the worst when Azel spotted bacon flavoured crisps in the hotel vending machines. On finding the machine required exact change, something he did not have, he stated in a somewhat forceful manner that “if they thought 6mm of glass was going to keep him from bacon crisps they had another fucking thing coming.” So seriously did the hotel management take this violent threat towards their porcine wares that upon our return, following a brief excursion to the local shops, they had stationed a security guard alongside the vending machines to protect them from any impending assault. Mercifully, myself and our newly feminised Viking friend managed to guide Azel away from the machines and into the lift to our rooms preventing what would have been the worst pork related international incident since The Bay of Pigs fiasco in 1961.
On to Berlin and more beautiful bedlam.
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