At this point we were trying to get tickets...
We were all
well-versed in what needed to be done on ticket sale day, which that Thursday
found us in a slightly different place. Instead of the normal 9.00 a.m. Sunday
kick off, on the Thursday 6.00 p.m. was the crucial time. An evening match
therefore, to use a football analogy. And like an evening match, this required
leaving work early as well as being distracted from work for the most of the
day.
That evening therefore I made sure that I was out of the door as soon as
possible and picked up Thomas on the way home.
Apart from that,
it was business as usual. The coffee pot was on and filled. Registration
numbers were checked and rechecked and blu-tacked up on the wall. Ashtrays were
emptied and I had a new packet of ciggies ready to go. (Ticket sale day is not
a day to give up smoking.) Phones were charged.
Two laptops and Thomas’ iPad
were set up. F5 buttons were primed. The TV was switched off. No distractions.
It was a well-oiled machine.
With minutes to
go, Thomas asked me if I thought we’d be successful. I was sure we would be;
for once I was quite optimistic.
“There can’t be
that many people wanting to do it like this,” I said. “They’ve got thousands of
tickets for this and I bet loads of people don’t even know about it. Besides, a
lot of people go by car so we’ll be fine. We’ll have our tickets sorted
tonight.”
We all listened
for the time signal on the radio at six and sprung into action as soon as the last
pip faded away.
“This page
cannot be displayed.”
Refresh.
“This page
cannot be displayed.”
Refresh.
“This page
cannot be displayed.”
I looked at
Jackie and Thomas. “You getting anything?” I asked.
They shook their
heads.
“Nothing.”
“Phones?”
“Currently a
high demand for this service,” Jackie said.
I lit up a
ciggie, tapped F5 and took a swig of coffee. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so
easy after all, but we were only a few minutes in.
“Give it time,”
I said, “Just let’s keep trying.”
Once it reached
6.20 things weren’t looking so good. Pages weren’t still loading and the phones
were no good either.
“Maybe you can
try on Sunday,” said Jackie. Thomas shook his head, a bit like Gary Lineker in
the World Cup to Bobby Robson.
Then, all of
sudden he shouted out. “I’ve got a page! Dad! Come on, you take over.” He stood
up and passed me the laptop.
“Oh shit!”I
said. “Jackie, shout out the numbers! Here we go!”
What had been a well-oiled
machine before had descended into a scene of panic. We were all trying to move around the room at
the same time and because of the shouting the dog had woken up and decided to
bark and run around like a ferret on crack.
Jackie, as ever,
steadied the ship. “Calm down. Here’s the numbers. Thomas, grab the dog. Are
you ready?”
“Yes, go on.”
She read our
registration numbers out and I typed them in, hands shaking. You’d have thought
that I was launching nuclear missiles rather than buying tickets for a music
festival. Maybe it was the effects of too much strong coffee.
“Oh, it’s asking
me how many coach tickets we need,” I said. I was losing it.
“Two, of
course,” said Jackie. “Just type it in.”
“From Liverpool?
When? Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday?”
“It doesn’t
matter. Just type it in.”
“OK. Right. Oh,
“Proceed”.” Another page came up. “They need the card details. Shout them out.”
Knowing that I
was a bit slow in this regard, Jackie read the numbers out carefully enough for
me to type them in correctly. Now was not the moment to transpose two digits.
“Expiry date?”
“Issue number?”
Done!
All in.
Complete.
The usual “Do
you want to proceed with this?“ message flashed up on screen.
I clicked on
“Yes” and waited for the confirmation.
There was a
slight pause, a slight hesitation in the internet, then an unexpected page came
up.
“Tickets for
Glastonbury 2014 have now all sold out.”
I looked at the
screen in disbelief. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. The message was still
there.
“Are you fucking
kidding me?”
“What?” they
both said.
“Look!” I
pointed at the screen. “It’s saying they’ve sold out!”
“Must just be a
glitch,” Thomas said, “Try again.”
I took a deep
breath and went back to the main page. “It’ll just come up with same thing,” I
said, gloomily. But it didn’t. It came up with the get tickets page. I knew
what I was doing this time; registration numbers in, bus tickets needed, card
details-proceed, confirm…and… “Tickets all sold out.”
“Oh bollocks!”
“Try again.
There must be some if it’s letting you reload the first page.”
So I did. Three more times I tried and each
time the same thing happened. The next time, the Glasto main page was telling
me that all tickets were sold out.
Out of desperation, I tried another couple
of times but it was no use.
They’d all gone.
The new book from which this is taken from is yet unedited and unfinished but will be published by Christmas 2014 ( I promise!)
My previous two books in the trilogy, "Turn Left at the Womble" and "Left Again at the Womble" are availbale here as either Kindle e books or paperbacks http://www.amazon.co.uk/Turn-Left-The-Womble-Glastonbury-ebook/dp/B0060YCKGW and http://www.amazon.co.uk/Left-Again-Womble-middle-aged-Glastonbury-ebook/dp/B00IBK2V6M
No comments:
Post a Comment