At 9am on Tuesday, it’s finally official: the legendary rock icons have returned. In the past 72 hours, the news has spread like wildfire, and fans worldwide are elated. Reports of ticket chaos for upcoming Oasis gigs in Ireland and UK have begun to surface, and it triggers chilling flashbacks of the frantic scramble for Coldplay and Taylor Swift tickets back in 2023 for those who are still haunted by the experience.
There’s playful chatter about curtailing the privileges of the elders who had the luxury of watching the band live for a mere £6.50 at the Tivioli in ’94, or who can flawlessly recite “Supersonic” and “Live Forever” after downing 40 Majors and 11 lagers. Those deeply engrossed with TikTok, the senior crowd argues, should be unequivocally excluded.
The promising fact that the concert promoters won’t deploy any presale or surge pricing tactics, usually a common sight, is received positively. It’s unforgiving of Oasis to announce the ticket release for 8am on a Saturday, a peculiar choice, but it presents a feeling of unity among fans.
5pm that Tuesday, the joy turns into annoyance: a presale is happening. Fans are invited to participate in a ballot, and excitement brews as a mini trivia game is included. With pride, I answer the first question about having seen the band once or twice. It was actually a single time, back in ’95, when they were supporting REM in Slane. As per my memory, they put on a fantastic show, with Liam hurling obscenities at the audience, and the band performing many tracks from their original albums, culminating with a rendition of “I Am The Walrus.”
The second question, though, about the identity of the original drummer, leaves me baffled. Like countless others, I do a swift Google search, provide my answer, and then impatiently wait for the queue confirmation. Soon I might receive a code that puts me in another queue for a potential ticket purchase. The actual ticket price, though, remains a mystery. Nonetheless, MCD has issued an exuberant press release stating that prices will start at a commendable “€86.50”, excluding the Ticketmaster service charge. Fair enough, indeed.
At 7:30am on Wednesday, I was still waiting for any sort of confirmation from the band that I had correctly identified the drummer’s name and successfully entered the presale ballot. I decided to try again with a different email address, confident enough to answer the drummer-related question without consulting Google.
Fast-forward to Wednesday at 1pm and I was still empty-handed, with no code to show. Even my spam folder was bare. While others received responses from the Gallagher brothers, I was left in the cold. My interest in the concert was casual at first, but the prospect of missing the performance due to the lack of a code aggravated me.
Thursday at 4pm rolled around with no correspondence from Oasis. The deadline for confirming my ballot entry was looming – 10am on Friday.
Friday morning, 9.51am: still no sign of a code. Both my inbox and spam folder were disappointingly empty. As a last-ditch effort, I checked the neglected “bin” folder on my Gmail – a location I was unfamiliar with, primarily due to ignorance of its existence. To my surprise, nestled among discarded emails and thought-to-be-lost correspondences, lay an email from Oasis. Sent over a day and a half ago, the email was asking me to affirm my ballot entry. With a tight seven-minute window before the deadline, I hastily clicked the confirmation button, hoping I had made it on time.
As the sun reaches its midpoint on Friday, I find myself in a modern, music-focused version of Waiting for Godot. There’s no hint of any code yet, but I have time on my side. Oasis has assured us all that those slated to receive a code will have it by the day’s end. I still have a solid five hours before I need to start worrying.
Two o’clock on Friday afternoon rolls around and I still haven’t seen a code. Out of everyone I know, only one person has been privileged enough. According to the Oasis social media pages, all the codes have been distributed. I seem to be an unfortunate exception.
By the time 7:05pm strikes on Friday, I feel like a sickly child who has been left alone, longingly peering through a coal-covered window into a sweet shop. Inside, children with bucket hats are eagerly consuming all the delightful, but seemingly overpriced tickets. MCD had announced that ticket prices would start at €86.50, but the social conversation amongst my peer group suggests that people are paying more than twice that. Even I find myself shocked when I hear about the €400 price tag associated with some tickets. There’s a part of me that, perhaps optimistically, believes that more affordable tickets will be made available tomorrow in the official sale.
Saturday arrives and at the very early hour of 7.15am my alarm sounds. Swift to action, I log on to Ticketmaster with a sense of anticipation. After gaining access to the prerequisite waiting room, I’m permitted to join the queue to buy tickets to watch what Damon Albarn once disdainfully referred to as the “Status Quo of the 90s”. It’s a sobering label that makes me question my devotion, but the collective frenzy keeps me invested.
As the clock strikes eight, it’s time for the main event. Ticketmaster ushers me from the waiting room to the queue. My heart beats in time with a silent drum roll as I prepare to discover my queue number. I’m hopeful that I will be in a more favourable position than I was for the Taylor Swift tickets, where an astounding 65,000 fans beat me to the punch.
One minute past eight reveals that I am the 138,393rd in line. I quickly do the maths. Even if every person ahead of me buys just a single ticket, and considering that only 20,000 tickets were pre-sold, I may yet get my hands on those coveted tickets. Despite the odds, hope is not entirely extinguished.
The first stage of grief, denial, sets in.
8.03am, Saturday: I’m utterly appalled. To be treated so disgracefully by Ticketmaster is beyond belief. Look at me, the very man who has been advising the entire nation on getting Oasis tickets! This must be England’s doing. How audaciously they permit people to purchase concert tickets at Croke Park an hour prior to the tickets going on sale in their country. This is shameful.
I’m livid.
8.30am, Saturday: I’m advancing at a sluggish pace in the line, yet over 100,000 individuals are still ahead of me. I’m fatigued but determined to persist. Have all the tickets been sold? Surely, they must be. Hang on! A new notification from Ticketmaster pops up advising me to be patient. There’s still a glimmer of hope. Maybe I should refresh the page? Or perhaps initiate a fresh browser to advance myself. There’s got to be a way to get through?
Now, I’m dealing with negotiation.
9.57am, Saturday: It’s over. There are 84,655 people still lined up before me, and the speed at which the queue is moving is soul-destroying — albeit noticeably faster than an hour back. There may be remaining tickets; however, if they exist, they’d come with a hefty price tag of more than €400. This is due to the dynamic pricing model, much favoured by accountants. Standing tickets initially costing less than €200 are now charging double.
I come to realise that I can’t afford such an extravagant sum and even if I could, I wouldn’t splurge it on Oasis. I’ve squandered my Saturday morning which could have been spent in the cosy comfort of my bed, in the company of my family. Instead, here I sit, alone on my sofa, empty-handed.
I reckon this journey through the stages of loss has now ushered me into despair.
At 11:35am on Saturday, I reach the head of the line under sunny skies. Yet, my enthusiasm has waned, and I find it hard to support the price structure chosen by the music group and associated promoters. How I long for the days when ticket prices were fixed and straightforward. I express my sincere joy for every fan who managed to secure a ticket in whichever way possible, wishing them a heartful enjoyment at the shows. I have resolved to my decision of not attending and harbour no resentment. I’m at peace with it, conveying acceptance rather than submission.