So, we’re at the second night of the Eras Tour’s new European leg. It’s me, my wife, and our two daughters, 10 and 13. We’re in the middle of the floor, a bit back from where the crush is really bad; the visibility is crap (a big flat arena floor is a terrible venue for seeing music) but we want to make sure our kids are safe.
About halfway through the show, this trio sort of drifts into the space next to us, a man and two women, all late 20s, classic shallow Parisian “pretty people.” They’re staggering drunk, dancing around carelessly, bumping into people. They’re getting glares, but they keep trying to pass it off with that passive-aggressive obnoxious-drunk attitude, like, “it’s a concert, we’re dancing and having fun, why are you angry, we’re not the problem you’re the problem,” etc. Nobody is directly challenging them, but people are definitely not happy.
After a few minutes, they crash into my wife again, almost knocking her over into our 10-year-old, so she loses her cool and indignantly yells at them to knock it off. One of the two women immediately takes offense and gets in my wife’s face, like, how dare you yell at me, doing that chest-forward confrontational “whaddaya gonna do” business.
My wife gives her a brush-off gesture, not touching her but a clear “go fuck yourself” message, and this woman shoves my wife. My wife is a fierce Persian, you don’t mess with her, and she instantly shoves back.
Right away, my protective instinct flares. I double check my kids are out of the way, and then I’m moving forward, intending to put myself between my wife and this crazy drunk lady (and her friend who was right behind her, getting ready to join in). But then the French dude steps right at me, getting in my face, blocking me.
And then we got swarmed by Swifties.
See, remember, we weren’t the only ones annoyed by these jagoffs. The whole section was sick of their bullshit and had been watching. So when the escalation happened, the people around us were ready. A dozen people stepped in, surrounding the drunk trio, grabbing them, while also pulling us back, making sure our kids were with us.
A few seconds later, security staff arrived. I don’t know if they were that quick, or if someone had gone to get them earlier, but their timing was perfect. It’s two big guys in black, bearing flashlights and humorless attitudes. They quickly sort things out, efficiently and professionally identifying the troublemakers, and a minute later, the drunken threesome is being forcibly maneuvered to the exit, accompanied by jeering applause from the section.
The Swifties were fantastic. One guy handed me a beer. Two other guys hoisted our kids onto their shoulders to give them a view of the show. A cluster of women surrounded my wife to support her and commiserate. Such a positive experience, in the end.
Nevertheless, “nearly getting into a fistfight at a Taylor Swift concert” was not on my lifetime bucket list.
