Discussing the Pet Shop Boys with Sara Cox

You know that Sara Cox, the one on Radio 2? No? Well, I’m a close personal friend of hers now, after chatting to her on her Friday afternoon show last week. I’d phoned in to ask if I could use her show to reveal to my wife Rachel on national radio something that I had kept hidden from her for the past few months. I’d told Sara in our brief chat before we went on air that Rachel and I were going to Leeds on Saturday, to see the Pet Shop Boys at the Arena. My new friend then played “Its a Sin” on her show, and Rachel heard it all when she got home that night. 

And so, on a hot Saturday morning, we drove off down the A1 to head to the largest city in Yorkshire, and found somewhere to park with surprising ease. Leeds sweltered in a very humid atmosphere, and we sweltered with it. As a result, by the time we arrived at the Greek restaurant that I’d had the foresight to book – a rare moment of good sense from yours truly – we were more than ready for a beer. And lunch, of course, but strictly in that order.

Without going all Trip Advisor on you, The Tavernaki Bistro is worth a visit if you ever find yourself in Leeds and fancying a souvlaki. It had the lot; bazooka music – or is that bouzouki? – pictures of Greek Islands on the blue and white painted walls, taverna tables, and a very cheerful couple of lads running the place. The service was good even though the food was a little pricey. But after two Keo beers (The taste of Cyprus!) that didn’t matter too much. 

It was a bit too hot to walk around the city all afternoon so we decided, rather than try to fit in with the bright young things enjoying the delights of the city centre we would play the old, tired and too hot card, and caught a taxi back to the hotel. Thankfully, the hotel that was only 200 metres from the venue for tonight’s gig. 

Ah, tonight’s gig. I have loved the Pet Shop Boys since the 1980s when they first burst on to the scene with West End Girls. I figured that I would continue to watch them whenever I could as Neil Tennant, the rather serious looking frontman with the distinctive nasal voice is only a couple of years older than me. So when he stops, I’ll stop. He’s my Canary in the Coalmine.

We stood in what used to be known as the Mosh Pit, although there wasn’t a lot of moshing going on even when they launched into such danceable tunes as “Always on my Mind” or “Suburbia.” Looking at my fellow concert goers it was obvious why. Moshing may have been a popular pastime thirty years ago for most of us, but now it’s more about singing along and dancing to tunes so familiar that you think they’ve been part of your life forever. 

A very tall shaven headed man with a lot of piercings stood right behind us, looking quite intimidating at first but he turned out to be a jolly soul with a Scottish accent. There were a couple of women next to us, smiling and chatting to us like we’d all known each other for years. And in the expensive seats right behind us, most people seemed to be excited by the prospect of a grand view of Pop’s most enduring duo. All except a very stern looking seventy-something man in a white shirt, who sat there with his arms folded as if determined not to enjoy himself. I think, looking at him at the end, he succeeded in his quest. We presumed he was somebody like the Mayor of Leeds who was there on official duty. 

The one irritant – and I hesitate to include this here because I don’t want to sound like a curmudgeon – was a little balding fella peering over his glasses while he stood next to me and filmed almost the entire gig on his phone, holding it up so that it was constantly in my peripheral vision. I bet he hasn’t even looked at it since he got home. 

PSB have always been known for trying to blend art with music, as evidenced by their weird costumes. But I love them for it. When they turned up with metal masks and silver coats, I’m not sure what point they were trying to make but it all adds to the experience and they always make me smile. And that can only be a good thing. 

Normally after I leave a gig, there’s a twenty minute queue to get out of the car park, and a drive home in the dark. But not this time. We were in the hotel within three minutes of leaving the arena, clutching a Dairy Milk ice cream that we’d bought from a shop next door on the way. It’s the future as far as I’m concerned. Glastonbury was on this weekend, and I gave thanks that I hadn’t just seen an Act from two miles away while I stood in a muddy field before trudging back another two miles to a tent that was never quiet. 

After a good night’s sleep we got up and wandered back down to the City Centre, most of which by now was much quieter than yesterday afternoon. The half hearted attempt to lose weight that presently occupies my every waking moment was joyously set aside in the Olive and Rye café while we tucked into pancakes, streaky bacon, sweet pecans and maple syrup. And as we waddled our the way to the nearest taxi rank afterwards, the Second World War raised its head in the form of an RAF Hurricane, a Battle of Britain fighter plane, on the pedestrian area near River Island. I resisted a selfie; but I did take a photo for the folks back home just to prove it was there and we weren’t hallucinating. It was actually part of an RAF Recruitment drive, and if I had been fifty years younger it might well have signalled a change of career. 

And so we left Leeds after just twenty four very enjoyable hours, full of pancakes and ice cream, and happy memories of a truly awesome gig. If you ever get a chance to see the Pet Shop Boys, take it. 

It’s a Sin not to.