So there’s this little known boy band who had a few international hits. They decided to visit South Africa. And a million kids across the country fainted.
And I bought four tickets. For the whole family. Well, technically I didn’t buy them myself. My mate bought them on our behalf. I was on a plane and had to make a plan. So I phoned him. There was an initial silence. It might have been borderline resentment from his part. But he agreed, for he’s a really great friend, and bought an additional four tickets. For his family as well.
Don’t judge us. Don’t you dare.
We’re manly men and rock out on Bon Jovi, U2, Belinda Carlisle and Cher.
We don’t have posters of any one of the five guys against our bedroom walls. We don’t have screensavers circling random photo’s of their smug faces. We don’t own any album of theirs. We don’t know if they’re dating anyone. We don’t care. As a matter of fact, we don’t know anything about Harry, Dick, Tom, Jerry and Kyle. We don’t even know there names. We are ignorant of all things “One Direction.”
But we have tickets. To see them live.
We had too. We didn’t really have a choice. One could say we were forced, threatened, bribed and begged. In truth it was one of those rare occurrences in life when being a man doesn’t count for shit. Like when the wife is in labour and you contemplate whether it be ok to grab a beer with some friends. You know there’s no effing way that it’s gonna happen. And at the risk of losing some important parts of your anatomy, you don’t even ask.
Did I mention that those tickets are damn expensive? Am I buying shares in the band? Are they gonna offer free food? Or beer? Does it come with a free t-shirt, at least? I need a picture of five typical boys, who shouldn’t even bother trying to get a date with Princess.
Or would this ticket buy me an opportunity to slap one of you? Any one will do. As a father, I think you need one. A slap, that is. For having like too many tattoo’s and wearing your pants like too tight and like really low and having like crazy hairstyles and being like too cool and rich and young and like, you know, popular. And for making me use the word “like” way too much.
(You redeemed yourselves, slightly, by wearing a Springbok Rugby jersey.)
To be honest, there was always a chance of getting out of it. We could have told the family that the tickets were sold out, which actually happened, by the way. Or we could have fallen back on any of our good ole tested man-xcuses. We chose not too.
Both of us have this thing they call, daughters. And both of our daughters were amongst those kids I mentioned early on. The ones who almost fainted upon hearing that their favourite band included South Africa in their international tour.
Even though the four tickets are the price of a small car; having an opportunity of seeing Princess go totally and fundamentally ballistic, whilst singing along to EVERY song of the band, would be absolutely PRICELESS. And that is something I wouldn’t want to miss for anything in this world. Or the next.
And that’s why I’ve got tickets to see One Direction.