Like in most situations where you get hundreds, and sometimes thousands, of people in one area, you’re bound to come across some idiots at a concert. We’ve already covered the likes of the ubiquitous rent-a-crowd bands and those people who just don’t shut up in previous features but they make up just a small proportion of them. This month we’ll take a look at the kind of people you have no choice but to spend your evening with every time you decide to go to a gig. Make no mistake, we enjoy gigs, but you’ll soon see some of the frustrations that you have to overcome to ensure you have a great night. So first off, you’ve arrived at the gig and two burly security guards are there waiting at the door for you to come in, they’ll make you queue in the cold and spend the time talking to each other and going into intimate detail about what they got up to with “that bird” last night. They barely acknowledge you, and when they do, they talk down to you like you’re an agitation– not someone contributing to paying their wages. Once they finally let you through, they’ll give you a thorough body search, decide things are banned from the venue that you’ve taken in plenty of times before, and to top everything off they’ll then go through the contents of your wallet, even going as far to take out your train receipts and library card. After not even letting you gather your belongings properly, they’ll shout and swear at you for holding up the queue. Because remember, it was you that wanted to be strip-searched in the pissing-down rain. Once you finally get inside the venue, you’ll head straight for the bar. You finally make your way through the to the front of the queue, but do you really think there’s any chance you’ll get served when the barman has some of his friends standing in front of him? They’ll stand together and talk. And talk some more. All night. Although if you’re lucky, you may get some sales people wearing Proton Packs trying to sell you watered-down shots while you’re trying to watch the support band, they’ll shout over them in your face – it’s ok as they’re on commission. Once you find your perfect space to watch the band, seemingly away from the idiots, it is guaranteed that the tallest man in the room will come and stand directly in your face. Even if, like me, you also stand tall at 6 foot 3. Seconds later his girlfriend will join him and instead of having a face full of his hair in front of you, you get a front-row seat to view a couple in lust, or is it love? There’s a band playing but all you can see is two lips locking. You move away to avoid being a gooseberry and watch what you’ve actually paid for, but are then, quite rightly, confronted by the people whose view you have just blocked. You’ll have to scarper to the back of the crowd and hope to get an ideal place during the next band turnaround. As you make your way to the place you’ve had your eye on all night, you realise it’s going to be a mission to get there. Everyone in front of you now seems to be wearing backpacks, and not small ones –the type people take to Glastonbury to carry their home and belongings for the weekend. It’s going to be a challenge to get that place so you just have to replay how contestants used to face the game ‘Gauntlet’ on ITV’s Gladiators and make a dash for it, despite the best intentions of the backpack and folded arm brigade. Just your luck that you end up next to the people who are giving a detailed (and incorrect) history of the band and claiming to be their biggest fan, the fact they’re all younger than the number of years the band has been going doesn’t deter the fact they “were” there first. Of course, they have loads of friends who are joining them later – and by forces unknown to mankind, a secret, magic gap through the crowd appears right next to you. Although to get through it, the conga line of kids have to bash and barge you out the way. Every single one of them. You’ll try and stand your ground but resistance is futile, you’ll either get kicked, shoved or screamed at. Drinks being thrown at you is all too inevitable – especially from those people up in the balcony seats, keep an eye above you, be prepared and hope that the fluid isn’t warm. Finally, people have stopped barging their way to the front and the main act is due to come on but wait, what’s this – that guy who has been standing in front of the lead singer’s microphone all evening now decides he needs the toilet? Ok, let him through. But what you’re not expecting is for him to come back with five pints delicately balanced between his fingers halfway through the first song. Not delicate enough, as before long you’ll have half a pint of beer all down your jacket sleeve as he collides with someone who has just got in the building, and has made a Usain Bolt-style dash to the front row with no consideration for anyone. As a moshpit kicks up, you have the choice to get involved or calmly step out the way and let the kids rip it up. There’ll always be one person in there who doesn’t want to be and don’t let it be you. Although if you like the idea of going mad, then by all means go for it. As the moshers have their fun and get more into the music, inevitably someone who hasn’t washed in days will rip their top off just the way Hulk Hogan used to, and guess who it is that ends up crowdsurfing? Everyone in the mosh gets to feel his sweaty, stinky torso rub across their faces. Lucky people. Although if you’re standing away from the moshpit, don’t feel you’re safe, as soon as he’s over that barrier, he’ll be back in. You smell before you see, and then you feel his bare chest slip against your shoulder as he moves in to take his place in the middle of the circle pit, leaving a trail of sweat across your back and pouring into your drink. He’s also knocked a couple of people over while in a rush to claim his rightful place back. As the gig goes on, you’ll end up admiring the way these idiots can get away with behaving this way, and on the way home you’ll have a chat with one of them who will tell you about the “greatest night of his life – it’s all about the music, maaan”, before proceeding to fall over into a ditch and pass out. The night was so good, he won’t remember it in the morning.