OK. Are you sitting down? Good. Because we need to get serious with you all.
There’s a real problem facing the live music circuit today. Its impact is devastating, but isn’t often spoken about.
No, we’re not talking about our Hughsey’s questionable taste in trousers (his therapy is going well, thanks for asking). This particular problem stalks all live performers like a…big black stalking thing and we must unite to acknowledge and face it together, before it’s too late.
You’re a musician. Last night, you played a gig. It was ace, the crowd loved it, the band nailed it. Who knows, maybe an attractive person even threw their undergarments at you (bonus!) and they weren’t crunchy (double bonus!).
But, even though you were surfing a tsunami of pure adrenaline at the time, you were sensible. You took steps. The only liquid that passed your lips was good ole H2O. You carried all the gear properly (full manual handling risk assessment deployed). And, despite the hordes of punters showering you with adoration at the end of the night, you were even able to pack up quick and get to bed before 3am (result!).
But now it’s 4pm the following day and *IT* is setting in…
Your body aches like you’ve been run over by a tank forged from Axl Rose’s ego and driven by the Stig. Your throat is drier than Jimmy Carr in the Sahara Desert. Your head is pounding (you didn’t even have a HALF, for Gods’ sakes!). You can’t focus. You’re pretty sure you’ve been fitted with someone else’s knees and – to make matters worse – they’ve been put on backwards. Your eyelids, hair and toenails are heavy. Over the course of the day, your brain has slowly turned into porridge. Actually, it aspires to porridge: your significant other is looking at you strangely right now because you just fed your dirty clothes and put the cat in the washing machine.
You, my friend, are a victim of gigamortis. Last night, you gave your all and now you’ve been reduced to a staggering shell of a human (ish) being, blinking slowly as you try to understand the origins of sentience, the meaning of existence and your place in the vastness of an unending universe. Or, at least for starters, how to open this bag of cheese and onion crisps you’ve been trying to get into for the last 20 minutes.
It’s a terrible thing to witness but it is, sadly, unavoidable (and absolutely nothing to do with getting older, thank you very much). But take heart! Because YOU can help.
Don’t worry, we’re not going to ask you for just £2 a month to help fight this horrendous affliction. It would barely cover the baseline ibuprofen costs, anyway. There are other ways you can help us win the fight.
If you see a gigamortis sufferer wandering the streets this weekend, for the love of all the Gods be kind to them. Make them a brew (or something stronger). Don’t ask them difficult questions (like what their name is, where they live or what they’re doing standing in your back garden weeping). Make sure they aren’t wearing their underpants on the outside (or, if they are, at least make sure they’re clean). If the case is severe, put them in a dark room in a nice comfy bed with some Pink Floyd playing and leave them be until the sobbing stops.
Give a weekend warrior a paracetamol and you’ll stop their headache for a day. But teach their community how to humour them and they’ll be able to continue breaking themselves at the altar of rock every Friday and Saturday night until either that chap the Blue Oyster Cult keep telling us not to worry about shows up to collect them or, Gods forbid, their significant other finally puts his/her foot down and drags them home to watch ‘orrible weekend telly forever.
Together, we can make a difference.