Since writing about the art of spectating in my last blog, the world has opened up to me in a pleasing fashion; I now have a guilt-free and legitimate reason to watch life pass me by, and some friends have invited me in from the cold to come inside and watch ‘interesting things’ with them.

Admittedly one friend lined up my most recent spectator sport from the moment I turned sixty last year and needed no nudging from my blog. You may remember that I foolishly asked friends to invite me to something that they enjoyed doing but I would never have experienced before. When I laid down this gauntlet I imagined months of ballet and wine tasting, but my tribe had tree hugging and touch rugby in mind. I am still too timid to bottle out on the invitation front, so last week I find myself attending my first ever country concert after my friend gifted me Jon Pardi tickets. She tells me that this is the first time her idol has performed live in the UK. Apparently this is a significant gig and I am in for a treat.

I do some speedy internet research and discover that Jon is expected to encapsulate a classic country sound (No, me neither). My friend enlightens me, ‘you know, a sort of neo-classicist vibe’. (Nothing). ‘He will be putting his own spin on the genre’. (I look forward to discovering his work).

School is particularly busy this term and once I have accepted this ticket, I fail to find time to do more research before the gig. Shamefully I do not listen to any of Jon’s music or buy myself cowgirl boots. Thankfully my friend is very forgiving and tells me that her ‘yee haw’ enthusiasm will make up for my lack lustre approach to this ‘new’ music genre.

Having moved into the world of finance some years previously, my friend no longer works with me in school and has embraced ‘blended’ working to ensure that she is always city- based when live music is available. In contrast, I am wedded to a school timetable and not afraid to bang on about it whenever I blog. On the day of the gig, I leave a morning assembly to discover that my friend has left a voice note. She is evidently very, very excited. I tell my Year 11 to put their phones away and crack on with revision while I sneak to the staff room to return her call.

‘ I am going to walk around Bristol during my very long lunch hour on the off chance that I may bump into Jon Pardi and his band. I hear they like a lunchtime tipple. Shall I buy you some supper while I am out stalking?’.
‘Won’t we have time for proper dinner? Don’t tell me I have to hear the support act too?’
‘Dinner? You will be eating alone, my friend. I advise you to find me in the O2 priority queuing area – I will be there from 4. o’clock so that we can rush to the stage when the doors open. I am offering you a pie or nothing.’
‘I never stand at the front at a concert, you know I prefer to prop up the bar and you know that I am not a pie person.’
‘Tell me, how are we to joke with the band and catch their discarded plectrums if we are standing at the back? Real country folk like pie.’
You promised me a birthday treat but this has all the makings of a public shaming. I know not a single Jon Pardi lyric and if we stand at the front the band could be offended by my silence. I will be the only one not singing and I don’t own a plaid shirt.
‘A silver lining on both fronts. They will cut you some slack because you are now over 60. See you at 4’.

I meet my friend in the queue when I arrive to join her at 6 pm – I still embrace rebellion and it is still two hours before the support act will appear. Naturally my friend is hogging the front of the line – there is only one man in front of her and they are chatting away in a suspiciously twangy shorthand – he also appears to be chomping away on ‘my’ pie. I assume he must be one of her many country friends as she is looking at photos of his baby. ‘No, we only just met this afternoon and we have been place holding so that we can run across to the pub and use their facilities’, friend tells me, before admiring the rhinestoned pink stetson sported by another new friend standing behind her. For the record, friend seems to be on first name terms with the burly security team who are also eating pie.

Unlike me, you may not have the time to stand around waiting for my country music verdict, so I will cut to the country chase and heel strut through to my Nashville takeaways:

• Knowing the lyrics matters not because a country chorus is repeated many, many times and, if you still can’t catch the words, you can clap/stomp along with the rest of the very forgiving and enthusiastic crowd. Classic Country apparently.
• Standing at the front of a gig is literally the way forward; I need to try this again. With all these stetsons around, you really do need to be at the front if you want to spectate anything on stage. Up front the roadies supply you with glasses of water to ensure that you do not faint/get crushed/steal the odd harmonica and I am truly grateful that – with their help – I manage to navigate my first line dance without swooning or stealing a musical instrument.
• Country music is so full of personal angst that I can totally relate. Real-life struggles, hardship and joy with an emphasis on truth-telling and rhinestone. I am totally invested.
• Country singers sing a lot about ‘hard liquor’. I can not relate to this directly, but I can empathise that too much good ‘ole whisky Jack’ is going to lead to heart ache and I am prepared to fall head over boots and chime in with this public awareness message, even if I am off key.

As spectator sports go, this counts as another good one. I definitely recommend. I do not see myself sitting in a rocking chair, buying myself a fiddle or asking Alexa to find me some country melodies, but if my lovely friend offers to take me to another live country gig, I am ready to run (slowly) up to the front to bag us a prime position. I will even bring my own pie.

Thinking about it, I have not seen my friend since I left her in the ‘merch’ queue after the concert. She was determined to buy herself a ‘tequila little time’ t-shirt before camping out by the band’s tour bus and she told me to go home and get something to eat. It might be time for me to invite her in from the cold and to remind her that her flexitime work pattern may not be syncopated to the world of country to the extent that she desires. It will be heart ache medication, but she is used to hardship and angst.