In the future, when all's well

Last Friday I went to see Morrissey play. Now I know in the past I have been critical of Mozzer, and I maintain that teenage angst is more credible for the young than it is for an increasingly portly, middle-aged man. But I couldn't pass up on the chance to see the man who c0-wrote There is a Light and It Never Goes Out, even if I am seeing him play when his prime has been and gone.

So we arrived quite early at Wembley Arena, keen to get a space near to the front. We managed to get a decent spot, but as a result we had to listen to the support band. I forget what they were called but they were quite possibly one of the worst bands I have ever seen (and hopefully will ever see). They were like an inverted version of The White Stripes - a male drummer and a female keyboard player who yelped and shreiked like a rabid cat in tumble dryer. To say that they out stayed their welcome would be a massive understatement - by the end of their incredibly repetitive set the crowd was in the right mood to lynch them. My friend was convinced Morrissey had put them on as a wind-up, I was convinced that he put them on so that, no matter how badly he played, he would seem good by comparison.

Anyway, whilst the roadies went around the stage, preparing everything for the arrival of the former Smith, I nipped from the hall to get a beer and go to the loo - my friend was left to guard our space in the increasingly packed hall. As I wandered out and looked around for the nearest bar I saw a group of middle aged men stood in the corner, chomping on various hot dogs and burgers. And stood in the middle of them, forcing a hot dog into his fat face, was a podgy, middle aged man. He was wearing a brown leather jacket and had his foppish hair brushed back. He really reminded me of someone, and it wook a moment for me to work out who he was. Then it struck me. It was the King of the Cunts - David Cameron.

I did a double take. I was convinced I must be seeing things - that my simmering hatred for Cameron that has been burning so bright over the past few weeks had made me delusional. But even on second, and third, glances it was still him. And then I remembered that Davey boy is a fan of the Smiths as well.

So I sent a text to my friend in the hall saying "you will never guess who is out here - David fucking Cameron."* I quickly got a message back - something like "No way - punch him." I replied that I probably wouldn't be punching the Leader of Her Majesty's Opposition. The text I got back read "Do it! I've got my camera!". However, in the event the need to go to the toilet outweighed the need for me to try to think of something to say or do to the man whose idiotic approach to being Conservative leader led me to leave the party. But I did wonder to myself whether Morrissey would play Last Night I Dreamt Somebody Loved Me, and if he did, whether Cameron would appreciate the irony. Probably not.

Inevitably, an idea of what I should have done did occur to me - halfway through Saturday, when it was about as much use as a whore in a church. I realised I still had my Tory party card in my wallet (the original plan was to chuck it in the recycling bin at work but that might be a bit "green" and therefore might appeal to Cameron). I should have taken out my card, gone over to Cameron, torn it in two and handed it to him. It would have been a cheap stunt, sure, but let's face it, Cameron is not above cheap stunts himself...

* I actually wanted to go with David cunting Cameron, obviously. But unfortunately that particular word was not in my phone's dictionary (for some strange reason). That oversight has now been corrected, as has the absence of fucktard as well.