My wife and I went to see Depeche Mode in Manchester the other night.
I don’t normally do stadium gigs, and it’s been a while, but they were excellent. Even though we were near the back of the auditorium and it wasn’t loud enough (I like the music to thump through me and rattle my rib cage). Depeche Mode are second only to 1989-era The Cure when I saw them at the NEC.
Anyway, my wife got to play the MS trump card.
During a Martin Gore ballad, she went to the bar to get us both a drink. On the way back carrying two pints, she was shouted at by a bloke with a gang of his mates:
“Alright, love? Are you thirsty?”
“Actually one’s for my husband.”
“The lazy bastard! He sent you to the bar?”
“Yeah, well, he’s got multiple sclerosis so he’d only spill them everywhere.”
The trump card played, my wife watched as his shoulders slumped and his mates rolled their eyes and shook their heads.
“Take no notice of him, he’s an idiot. Can we help you at all?”