Concerts, Studs, and cups of Beer

Soon, it'll be June the 24th, and I'll be in a bar somewhere north, my excitement bubbling as enthusiastically as the amber fizz popping around in my drink. In a couple of hours I'll be seeing my second favourite band, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, grand masters of funk, in Sunderland's Stadium of Light.

Denim and asterix vest a-go-go.

No more than three months later, on September the 11th, I'm ecstatic to announce I'll be sitting precariously on a bar stool somewhere south, trying desperately not to either bounce myself off it in sheer anticipation, or rip holes in the leather with a bunch of violent-looking studs stapled to my skirt. This morning I purchased tickets to see my favourite woman in the world, Lady Gaga, in Manchester's MEN arena.

Custom jacket? I think so.

Aside from that, at certain points around September, November, and January, I'll be in my car, driving in a circle, blasting either Uno!, Dos!, or Tre! at full volume, wailing along to each track until I've got the lyrics down better than I know my own name. In those months, my all-time greatest idols whom I adore more than it's humanly possible to describe, Green Day, will have released three brand-new albums consecutively.

Call an ambulance, please. I've been officially slayed by music.