![]() I turn and stretch both arms out to keep places for my friends. The barrier feels smooth, cool, ethereal. I place my hands on metal, curl my fingers gently around the top-rail and raise my eyes to the dark, ominous construction looming overhead, breathless, trembling, in shock. I hesitate, overcome by the ecstasy of this extraordinary moment which will NEVER happen again. I have seconds to stake my claim on the perfect spot. I’m stepping along the shallow aluminium platform which balances the ultimate barrier. Nothing can stop me now! I’m through the gap. ![]() I expect to hear Security yell, ‘HALT!’ If they do, I shall pretend I’m deaf. ![]() I look ahead at, oh God, Front of Stage.Ī handful of people is dotted around dead centre but centre left is bare. My heart races as I stumble towards the gap. Underfoot is a carpet of shattered, sharp angled stones which threaten to sprain ankles and twist knees. I lose focus on my surroundings, my breathing falters, I feel like I’m floating away. It looks like the final turn in a maze leading to The Holy F***ing Grail. My eyes dart the length of the gun metal grey boundary which heads north to meet the far left edge of the stage. The Priority Zone covers the entire west side of the showground and is corralled by sturdy barricades. My step quickens, I put my glasses on and suddenly everything becomes clear. He points into the distance and shouts,’ Priority Line is way over there.’ I turn my head and follow his line of sight to a blur on the horizon. The last hurdle, over which is direct, uninterrupted access to the field of dreams. Unexpectedly, however, there is a further queue around the corner. I have not a care in the world as I wait patiently at the sideline for the correct wristband and watch jubilant Metallers streak past me towards aching legs, throbbing feet, sunstroke and certain death by dehydration on the frontline. Naturally, holding a Priority ticket I enter the Fanzone queue. With a triumphant cheer they sprint through the gate and disappear in a cloud of dust.Īhead stand parallel lines of barriers leading to a series of turnstiles signposted General, Fanzone and Priority. There is no warning, no starting whistle, no 3-2-1 ARE YOU READY FINLAAAND just the sudden, piercing screech of steel being dragged across tarmac and a hundred Rockfest Olympians instantly bolt to life.
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