I don’t know when it happened, but somewhere along the line, going to a gig quietly morphed from “fancy it?” to “better remortgage the house and alert your next of kin.”

Honestly, getting tickets these days feels less like buying a night out and more like trying to secure a place on a Mars mission. You’ve got queues, general sales, resale sites, fan codes, loyalty schemes… I’m half expecting to need a blood sample next time.

And even then—you’re not guaranteed anything.

I remember my first proper big gig. I was 14. My mum paid for it—£21.50. And that included the coach from Portsmouth. Twenty-one pounds and fifty pence. That got you transport, the ticket, the experience, the lot. No hidden fees, no “dynamic pricing,” no emotional damage.

The gig? Guns N’ Roses. Milton Keynes National Bowl. 1993.

Now, I’m not saying it was better “back in my day” (I absolutely am), but it just felt… simpler. Ma let me go with two mates, we jumped on a coach, i had a bag of sweets, a sandwich and a big bottle of made up Vimto, and that was that. Ma didn’t have any GPS tracking, no constant updates, no “share your live location.” Just a vague “be careful” and off we went.

Different world. Probably a slightly safer one—or at least one where parents didn’t have access to a million worst-case scenarios in their pocket.

But the point is, it felt accessible. It felt like something normal people could just… do.

Fast forward to now and trying to get gig tickets feels like you’re being tested mentally, financially, and spiritually.

Take last year.

My eldest daughter and I wanted to go and see Coldplay. Nice, simple plan. Bit of music, bit of bonding, bit of me pretending I’m still young enough to stand for three hours without needing a sit down halfway through.

Tickets went on sale… and were gone in about six minutes.

Six bloody minutes.

I’ve had longer conversations paying for my petrol.

We missed out, obviously. Because I didn’t have 17 devices open, three Wi-Fi connections, and a team of analysts working on my behalf. I was just there, refreshing like an amateur, thinking I stood a chance.

So I did what everyone does—I checked resale sites.

£500. For two tickets.

Five hundred quid. And that’s before you’ve even left the house. Then you’ve got train tickets to London from Manchester, a hotel, food, drinks… suddenly you’re looking at a weekend that costs more than a small countries national deficit.

And I just couldn’t do it.

Not because I didn’t want to. Not because it wouldn’t have been brilliant. But because, at some point, you’ve got to look at it and go, “I just can’t do it”

Telling my daughter we couldn’t go—that wasn’t fun.

Your heart sinks a bit. You feel like you’ve let them down, even though you know, logically, you haven’t. You’re just being realistic. Responsible, even. (I know, it doesn’t sound like me, but it happens occasionally.)

To be fair to her, she’s an absolute warrior. Took it on the chin. No drama, no sulking, no “you’re the worst dad ever.” Just a quiet acceptance and a “that’s alright.”

Which somehow makes it worse, doesn’t it?

Because you’d almost prefer a bit of a tantrum—you can work with that. But quiet understanding?

The thing about all this—it’s not just about money or tickets or logistics. It’s about experiences. Moments. Memories.

The stuff that actually matters.

But somewhere along the way, those moments have been priced out of reach for a lot of people.  And I get it—there’s business, there’s supply and demand and all that grown-up stuff. I’m not completely clueless. But it still feels like it’s all gone a bit crazy.

Some people will happily spend big on gigs. Some people won’t. Some people will prioritise travel, others will prioritise saving, others will just try to get through the week without setting something on fire.

All of it’s valid.

And that’s alright.

Would I have loved to take my daughter to see Coldplay? Of course I would.

But does missing one gig put us off looking for tickets every time we see one of your fav’s are rolling into town? Absolutely not.

We’ll find something else. Another day, another memory, another story to tell.

Maybe it won’t be £500 tickets and a London hotel. Maybe it’ll be something simpler. Cheaper. More us. And you know what? It’ll probably be just as good. Because the value isn’t in the price tag—it’s in the moment.

So yeah, gig tickets might cost a small fortune these days. You might need to sell a kidney, a limb, or at the very least a bit of your dignity to get them.

But don’t let it make you feel like you’re doing life wrong if you can’t—or won’t—play that game.

You’re not behind, you’re not missing out on everything.

You’re just choosing what matters and most of the time, that’s worth more than any ticket you didn’t buy but then again, might just be me.