Anyone who is vertically challenged and who has ever been to a concert in the Netherlands knows that you don’t go to see a band; you go to hear it. The cloggerites are the tallest people in the world and probably in the galaxy and every other galaxy too.
So, even if you get to a venue six hours early and attach yourself to the stage so you’re in the front row, it is inevitable that someone who is at least two metres tall (6’7″) will elbow you out of the way in order to stand in front of you. Even if the band is shit and there are 20 people in the room, you can guarantee that the tallest person there will stand in front of you. Even if you find yourself a nice little bit of step or raised platform to stand on, the tallest person there will hunt you down and stand in front of you, their great Dutch height still equalling more than your 158 cm + 5 cm heels + 30 cm of step. I just stopped going to concerts in the end.
Imagine the culture shock then, when at a recent concert I attended, I realised that my border-line midget self was actually a good head and shoulders taller than half of the room.
Imagine further the joy I felt as I surveyed the room and saw how the little-ees (with the exception of the monstrously-large-in-every-way groupie who was practically rubbing her nipples on the bass-player’s pedals) were gathered at the front while the tall people had taken their rightful places at the back. The civilised nature of it almost gave me a migraine. Imagine then, how I almost choked on my yes-I-am-over-21-sir beer when the boy who was standing in front of me and who came up to my shoulders turned around and said, “Can you see ok? Do you want to stand in front of me?”. I almost cried. “No thank you,” I said proudly, “I can see just fine.” It was a momentous occasion.