So, last night I had dinner with Bono.
And the Edge.
Kind of.
Okay, I ate a chicken pie at the U2 concert.
But in my mind, I ate dinner, Bono was there.
Therefore; dinner with Bono.
Life on planet Craig; Great.
You should visit.
When I bought my two VIP tickets, for a lazy $440, I stupidly assumed that I might actually get to see the great man.
The greatest (if not the tallest) rock star in the world.
If only I had taken my telescope.
If only the venue didn’t cover three suburbs.
If only I had that bionic eye operation.
If only he wasn’t three feet tall.
The sound was phenomenal but for all I know, it could have been Cuba Gooding Jnr. up there lip-sincing.
For two hours I watched a singing ant in sun glasses.
And when I couldn’t be bothered squinting at the ant, I watched the giant TV screen…. but for all I know, they could have been playing some footage from an old concert.
Come to think of it, he did look a few years younger.
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Ahh, the age of the super stadium … if I wanted to watch it on television I could have stayed at home. What’s wrong with seeing your favourite band at the local pub where your feet stick to the carpet? (Except of course, they’re not playing there …)