My happy place

No pre-general sale queue passcode.
No frenzy. 
No credit card.
No being a slave to the Ticketmaster. 
No fretting over the outfit (it's binary: swimming togs or bollock naked)
No queuing to get in.
No queuing for merch.
No being ripped off for merch.
No queuing for a wee.
No queuing for a €8 plastic glass of beer that will make me feel like having another wee. 
No burger priced like fillet steak.
No chips fried in oil first put in service at a Sex Pistols concert. 
No tinnitus.
No strobing lights. 
No queuing to get out. 
No queuing to get squashed into a Dart to get back home. 

Jeez, I am turning into a real old fart.

And loving it.