Elitist Twat and The Lost Boys: AC/DC Live In Berlin 2015

A breakfast of champions was taken at 5 o'clock in the morning when we met up with Azel (Wizard/Bacon Crisp lover) and his mate Hoolie (Ballbreaker hater/non-elitist twat). As we drank our breakfast, exchanged the usual insults and sorted out the elitist twat pecking order, time was as happily ticking by as the conversation. It may have been Hoolie, though I am loathed to give him any credit, but someone must have remembered why we were in an airport at stupid o'clock in the morning and with a cry of "fucking hell it's five to six, final call and we're fifteen fucking minutes away' we sauntered gently off towards our departing plane. Needless to say we needn't have worried as RyanAir hadn't even opened the gate never mind closed it, nor had they even bothered to bring one of their own planes, Crazy Dave's Air Extravaganza it was. Not that Azel and I were bothered as we wandered off to get on a completely different plane, "What's that? I can't walk there because it's a runway?" Why don't they put zebra crossings on them...?

Hoolie enjoys Azel's legendary Angus impression ...

We landed at the flughafen about an hour and a half later and after a minor amount of aimless wandering we located the Bahnhof, bought tickets and got on the right train. Had the curse of Azel been lifted? Would everything finally go according to plan? Were there going to be easily accessible bacon crisps at two in the morning?

At the bahnhof ...

Azel and Hoolie were abandoned to their own devices at Charlottenburg. I felt sorry for Hoolie, I really did, leaving him to look after Azel on his own but I figured they were long term mates so he must have experience of the impending difficulties. Me and the boy cracked on to Spandau and our river front hotel suite. Contact was made with my favourite Russian, Rocker and after descriptions of the previous night's AC/DC related carnage, exemplified by Sharon's somewhat reserved demeanour, we were off to the stadium for some 'lunch'. Raff had picked the perfect meet up spot, beers, trees, and immediately outside the train station to the Olympic Stadium. You just couldn't miss it. I mean really, it was right in front of you.

"Jem?"

"Yes, Azel"

"I'm lost and I'm hungry"

Of course you are.

Not even the attentiveness of Hoolie could have prevented this inevitability. Safely swept up, Azel and Hoolie, joined by Raff, Stefan and Angelica, John and Scott and many more familiar faces, got down to the serious business of talking bollocks and drinking beer. Marcinha and his cousin joined us soon after and Mr Petrolhead landed among us just in time for the parade down to the stadium. It had been a beautiful sunshine filled afternoon and the evening was set fair as we approached the impressive Olympicstadion. 

A word for the King among men that is Raff, who once again helped loads of fans get into the inner circle, ensuring that they had a great time down with their friends. Thank you sir. 

Raff, Marcinha and Mr Petrolhead lead off the parade

Tickets and wristbands sorted, and more entrances tried than the last time I went out on the pull, we finally made our way inside. Scenes at the toilets made the recent issues at Calais look like one of Liz's Garden Parties, aside from those difficulties all was gut. Until we lost Azel again. And Hoolie. And Marchinha. If someone can sort me out 100 high visibility jackets to take to fucking Wembley that would be great. Never saw Azel again, just hope the old boy is alright, I did hear a tale of some red headed bear of a man stepping in and saving the day with some classic English diplomacy when things got a little tasty down the front. I even caught a glimpse of Hoolie being hoisted up on a bunch of new German friend's shoulders while he and they screamed "Azel! Azel!" Before he sank beneath the surging Teutonic wave. Marcinha? Marcinha was last seen having a very civilised cappuccino at Checkpoint Charlie thank you very much. Stay classy.

Vintage Trouble laid down the firm foundations for a night of rock and roll as you would expect and our appetites whetted, we awaited the greatest rock and roll band of all time. I don't think I have ever enjoyed a gig more. My face hurts with all of the smiling, my fingers are stiff with all of the technically demanding but also really soulful air guitar I was laying down, my cheek is sore and swollen from repeatedly banging it on the fella in front. You think he'd take the hint right? Oh and one of my toes has come off. Not totally convinced that I won't lose the entire foot.

It and they were beyond magnificent. They fucking mean it. Look in Ang's eyes. Just look in his eye's.

Hashish, Prostitutes and Bacon Crisps: AC/DC Live In Barcelona 2015

So smooth were the initial stages of the fans.net Barcelona Expedition, no delays, no confusion, somewhat surprisingly not even any customs issues, that there was no indication of the adventures which lay ahead, no portents, no signs and no warnings. Unless you count Robert Downey Jr demonstrating that he was a right penis a few seats in front of us.

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.

 

With nothing else for it we decided that we might as well get into the stadium as apparently there was a decent band playing there. Refreshments obtained we planted our metaphorical flag by the mixing desk and enjoyed the hand clapping, thigh slapping, get down with yer badself rock and roll of Vintage Trouble. Comfortably the best opening act our heroes have ever laid before us. With darkness falling and the sky alight with devil horns we advanced on all fronts. Once in position (Stevie’s side level with the podium) we immediately struck up lifelong friendships with our neighbours winning hearts and minds by teaching them “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles” and engaging in conversations consisting entirely of the words Rafa Benitez. In return they offered us gifts of hashish, cocaine and a strange colourless and odourless liquid. One of them, who we nicknamed ‘Vicious Looking Gangster’ took a real shine to Magnus and we hope that they will be very happy together. Our intrepid Viking took it upon himself to lead the entire crowd in the traditional Norwegian chant of “Ole, Ole, Ole” something they took up with remarkable gusto given their understandable lack of knowledge of Norsemen culture.

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.