Then the ballads hit. “Love Yourself” starts, and the irony is not lost on you—you are, indeed, loving yourself right now, standing in a field, surrounded by strangers who all know the exact same “mmm-mmm” opening riff. It’s oddly comforting. It’s like you’ve all accidentally joined a therapy session where the only requirement is a working knowledge of Justin’s discography.
He is wearing a hoodie that looks suspiciously like the one you have at home, but his probably costs five hundred dollars and has never seen a washing machine. He does a little dance, a shuffle-step thing, and the crowd goes absolutely bananas. It’s not a complex move—I could probably do it after two glasses of wine—but when he does it, it feels like the most profound art you’ve ever witnessed.
Right about now, the British weather decides to be its usual self. A few drops of rain. A gust of wind that smells like wet grass and spilled lager. Nobody cares. In fact, it adds to the vibe. You’re now living a very specific, very expensive version of a British summer: slightly damp, slightly overpriced, but weirdly magical.
Justin Bieber On Stage Photos and Premium High Res Pictures - Getty Images
The Grand Finale
The pyro kicks in for “Sorry.” The stage belches flames that you can feel on your face from the fifth row back. You wonder if your eyebrows are going to be singed, but it’s too late to move. You are committed. You are part of the Bieber-tsunami.
He closes with “Peaches,” and you have a bizarre moment of clarity. You’ve spent the last two hours screaming about peaches and forgiveness and a girl named—what was it—Hailey? It doesn’t matter. The euphoria is real. You are tired, your voice is gone, and your shirt is sticking to your back in a way that is definitely not fashionable.
And then it’s over. The lights come up, revealing the battlefield: trampled cups, lost shoes, and a thousand disappointed faces. You shuffle out of the park with the herd, your ears ringing with a low hum that won’t go away for three days. You check your phone. The video of “Baby” is shaky and the audio is just screaming. Perfect.
You stop for chips on the way to the tube station. The salt tastes like victory. You didn’t just see a concert; you survived a ritual. You joined a tribe of people who unironically love pop music and are unafraid to show it. And tomorrow, when your coworker asks how your weekend was, you’ll just nod and say, “It was British Summer Time.” They’ll understand. Or they’ll think you’re weird. Either way, it was worth every penny.
