Memories are made of paper.
Well, at least they used to be. Those much-coveted tickets for that gig you’ve been waiting so long to see, that show you’ve heard so much about, that sporting event you so much want to be a part of.
Following a two-year break due to covid restrictions, over the last few months I’ve been fortunate enough to attend a number of live events, from The Rolling Stones and Sam Fender, to several football matches and theatre productions. In previous years I’ve always liked to hold onto tickets as a tangible reminder of the occasion.
What can I say, it’s the way I am. But not anymore.
These days it’s all about downloading a QR code onto your phone that is scanned at the event and then deleted away into QR oblivion. It’s quick; generally, and efficient. It is completely cold and yes, I’m going to go and say it, soulless; without character or the capacity to excite.
And it is also without the capacity for memories. You won’t look back on a QR code in years to come (even if you had the chance) and say wow, that was the best night ever.
It’s all a part of the general homogenisation of life, as experiences are there simply to paste on social media to show off where you are or have been to, quickly getting ‘liked’ as they move onto the next post waiting in line for someone’s fleeting attention.
Unlike a ticket, a code on a phone is intangible. Unlike a ticket, it wasn’t there. It didn’t que up with you. It doesn’t remind you of the thrill when those tickets you’d sent away for in earnest hope landed in the post and you would hold them gleefully knowing full well they were the golden passage to something that is going to be wonderful and memorable.
It doesn’t have folds like battle scars when you stuffed it in your pocket as you weaved yourself into a great spot near the stage, it doesn’t have a lager stain on when someone accidentally knocked your drink, or have great artwork representing that iconic artist or tournament. It doesn’t make you smile, bring back thoughts of people or places, the excitement felt in the build-up with the people you shared it with.
Such as 2004, a trip made with my likewise Wimbledon fanatic sister Jane watching a balletic Roger Federer on Centre Court on the brink of his second Wimbledon title. We have Tina Turner, third row, transfixing me at the peak of her powers with an energetic young Bryan Adams as support.
Two London Wembley Stadium events, one in 1978 watching my much beloved Liverpool Football Club be crowned Champions of Europe for the second successive year.
And a glorious sun-kissed Independence Day 1985, the day before my birthday and just three weeks after passing my driving test, absorbing and soaking in the glory days of Bruce Springsteen & The E-Street Band, the memory of myself and my other sister Sandra wandering in awe down the players tunnel – and notice the torn battle scar made on the day that for ticket nerds like myself, blesses it with authenticity.
So yes, I will always miss the ticket. I forget the long hours physically queuing, the crush of disappointment of being told all the tickets have gone. I forget the envelope with my cheque returned because all of that, all of it, was preferable to today’s online world where your excitement is manipulated by monstrous agencies like Ticketmaster as they lead you in as ticket prices rise like an Apollo rocket before your very eyes.
When I am gone all my paper tickets will be found and discarded by someone as a relic and that’s fine. Until then I will look at them and smile as a world of memories takes me back to a time the QR drones of today could never be a part of. And I pity them for it.
SONGS AND SCRIPTS AND DUNKING BISCUITS 
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