I took a few pictures of the AC/DC show in Amsterdam from “front of house” last night. The best “seat” in the Ajax stadium was a basket suspended from the rafters – rather like one of those window-cleaning cradles that dangle from skyscrapers.
Clad in a full-body harness (nothing like a corset), I pranced gaily along a metal catwalk just beneath the roof…and looked down. Gulp!
Access to the basket, as shown in the photo, was down a rope ladder. The specks below are not dwarfs; 140 feet directly underneath are AC/DC fans. They quaffed Amstel from plastic pint pots, blissfully unaware I was climbing over a waist-high railing above them.
‘Nothing loose in your pockets?’ asked one of the house riggers, checking I even know what a carabiner is, let alone how to clip onto the inertia line. ‘Only a phone, camera, some petty cash and half a dozen signed plectrums,’ I said innocently.
Blimey, it was high up there. How these rigger chaps can happily straddle beams at this altitude, winching motor cables all day, is beyond me.
Ooh, just while I think of dizzying heights, if you get a chance to see Man on Wire, then do so. It’s a super documentary about a French tightrope walker who fraudulently enters New York’s Twin Towers in the ’70s. He rigs a cable, and sure-footedly crosses between the two towers, much to the consternation of the police. But what can they do? Helicopters hover; officers shout. But no one likes the look of retrieving him from the wire.
Home, Sweet Home
Wired on nothing but coffee, last night’s drive – finally – was back to Britain. Ah, the White Cliffs of Dover and a plethora of illegal immigrants. Home, sweet home. Those gloved Neanderthals at HM Customs & Excise waved me past, but I had that momentary indecision of looking straight ahead or smiling at them.
It’s like those green ‘nothing to declare’ channels at airports – if I avoid eye contact I feel conspicuously suspicious, but glancing over chummily could be interpreted as a double bluff. Any expression, I find, is one of guilt, as though I’m concealing a condom of barbiturates up my bottom.
Vultures neatly sidestepped, it was the home run – quite literally. Abandoning the truck at Wembley Stadium, I’ve sneaked down to my house in Hastings on the train, hoping to goodness that I turned the iron off in April..