Then you see the final price. It includes a “service fee,” a “facility fee,” and what I’m pretty sure is a “we-can-do-whatever-we-want fee.” Your wallet weeps. You start doing mental math: “That’s about twelve meal deals. Or a very nice pair of boots. Or… a concert ticket.” You click “buy” anyway, because your future self in a sweaty crowd is way more fun than your present self eating a meal deal alone.
You tell yourself it’s an investment in memories. Which is true, but it’s also a direct line to your bank account crying. You justify it by thinking of that one guitar riff in “Longshot” that makes you forget all your life problems for three and a half minutes. That riff is worth at least 80 quid, right?
CATFISH Archives - Double8Tickets
The Aftermath
Once the tickets are in your digital wallet, a strange calm washes over you. You text your gig buddy, “WE’RE IN.” They reply with a flute emoji and a hundred exclamation points. For the next few months, you’re that person who brings up the concert at every opportunity. “Oh, you’re going to Spain in August? Cool cool, but did I tell you I’m seeing Catfish in November?”
You start planning your outfit. You think about wearing a band t-shirt of a different band, just to be ironic. Then you remember you’ll be standing for three hours, so comfort wins. You settle on the same “going-out” jeans you’ve worn since 2018. It’s fine. Everyone will be looking at the stage anyway.
You also have the “who’s driving” conversation approximately seven times. It’s a delicate dance. One of you will have to be the designated driver, which means watching everyone else get properly sloppy while you sip on a single Coke. Or worse, you try to get the train home at 11 PM and realize the last one left at 10:47. That’s a classic Catfish post-show Uber expense.
Catfish And The Bottlemen
