Make Poverty History.

I remember precisely where I was on July 2nd 2005. I spent most of the afternoon and the whole evening at Hyde Park in London. The largest rock concert of all time 'Live 8' was happening, an immense global event, featuring some of rock and pop's biggest and most famous acts, and I'd been fortunate enough to snaffle some tickets. This was in complete contrast to the first ‘Live Aid’ concert twenty years earlier in 1985 when I'd had to settle for spending the day glued to the TV and taping the whole event from the radio coverage, even though it was happening only twenty miles away. So, I was feeling somewhat pleased with myself.

I'd decided to take my Dutch friend Marc along with me. Marc and I have been friends since my earliest days in the Netherlands, and I can confidently say he's my oldest and dearest Dutch friend. We met because we both worked for the same company in Rotterdam, and in fact Marc still does. On Marc's first day in the office he walked in wearing exactly the same jacket as me; same colour, same style. This was an excellent ice breaker and upon further investigation we discovered that we shared similar tastes in many things. Thus a connection was forged and a solid friendship began which has since stood the test of time.

One of the things Marc and I have most in common is an intense interest in music. Marc plays bass and has played in almost as many bands as I have. One of Marc's biggest musical influences is the band Pink Floyd. Dave Gilmour is Marc's very own personal hero. I would go as far to say that Marc is the biggest Pink Floyd fan I have ever met, and I've met quite a few over the years. So it was with this in mind that I'd invited him to attend 'Live 8' with me. I'd actually promised him that I'd take him as soon as it became clear that I might just be able to get some tickets. So when, incredibly fortuitously, I actually received some tickets in the post I rang him immediately. The pure ecstasy in his voice at the prospect of seeing the four original surviving members of Pink Floyd, reunited after 24 years, was such a beautiful thing to hear. I had a lump in my throat when I told him and I felt a joy in my heart knowing that it was such an easy thing for me to be able to fulfil this dream for him.

Before too long we found ourselves in Hyde Park for the big day, all around us were many smiling, expectant faces and everyone waited patiently as we were all herded into a holding pen where we'd have to stay until they finally opened the turnstiles and started to let us in. Surrounding us was an atmosphere of enthusiastic anticipation while we waited in line to be checked by security. The bubbling murmur of excited voices made us curious about exactly what sort of momentous day lay before us.

As we approached the gates I knew that I’d have to show my ticket and therefore started to reach into my back pocket. Panic gripped me when I realised there was nothing there. My heart started pounding and my mind raced as I checked the other pockets, there was no ticket in any of them. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!!" I quickly tried to make sense of what was happening.

"Marc, I think someone has pick-pocketed my ticket," I said, my eyes wide with alarm.

"You’re joking!" Marc responded with disbelief.

"I dunno it's just gone!" As I spoke I was double checking every pocket.

"Have you checked everywhere?"

"Yes! It's gone, I'm certain."

"Oh shit! It's not here with mine is it?” Marc checked the envelope I'd given him earlier containing his ticket. "No look there's only one here. What the fuck have you done with it?"

"It was in my back pocket, I'm sure," I said, desperately trying to remember what I’d done with my ticket. "Some bastard in this crowd must've stolen it without me noticing." 

I felt sick to my stomach as these words echoed inside my head and I realised their significance. My whole day would be ruined; my one chance to be a part of this historical day had disappeared in an instant. Dark thoughts quickly enveloped my brain as I silently cursed whoever had been clever enough to steal my ticket from under my nose. I was standing on the lip of a precipice looking down into the boiling flames of a fire-pit from hell and feeling the inexorable pull downwards.

We were close to the turnstiles now. Within a couple of minutes I'd have to show my non-existent ticket to security and face expulsion. Marc, seeing the disappointment on my face and sympathising with my plight, offered me his ticket like a true friend. I thanked him, but I wasn't about to allow him to miss this phenomenal day. I'd just have to accept the consequences of my negligence and step aside. I folded my arms across my chest in resignation, shaking my head. Then I felt it, under my T-shirt, tucked into my waistband under my belt…where I'd put it…for SAFE KEEPING!!

I quickly pulled out the envelope containing my ticket and let out a huge sigh of relief. Oh what a stupid twat I was, oh my God how utterly inane! Marc was grinning. I had been saved from the pit at the last moment, it felt as if a huge eagle had swept down and picked me up from the edge of the precipice and now I was soaring up into a bright blue sunlit sky. Every little bit of tension that had so suddenly enveloped my back, neck and chest was now instantly released. The day was saved. Internally I scolded myself for being so quick to blame someone else for my own foolishness. How quickly darkness can fill our thoughts; how readily we seek to blame faceless villainy for our own shortcomings. There was indeed a lesson to be learned.

I showed my ticket to the security man, he tore off the stub and waved me through the turnstile. I was then greeted by one of his colleagues, frisked and had my bag checked for glass bottles, bombs and heaven knows what else. Then we were in. Marc and I strode purposefully toward the stage to claim our spot amongst the throng as the 250,000 strong crowd slowly built up. The sun was shining on and off, as big white cumulus clouds scudded gently across the sky. It felt great to be there.

After a short delay the biggest concert the world had ever known kicked off and it's difficult to describe the varied feelings of emotion that welled up inside me when Paul McCartney took the stage with U2 to kick off with “Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band”. As soon as I heard the words "It was twenty years ago today…" and the special poignancy those lyrics now held, alluding to the first 'Live Aid' concert, tears filled my eyes and I felt immense pride; proud to be a part of this; proud to make a stand against world poverty; proud to be British; proud to be old enough to remember the first one and above all proud to be a part of history.

The rest of that afternoon Marc and I watched, danced, cheered and sang along to nearly all of the numerous groups and solo artists that took to the London stage. Once or twice we went to queue for one of the port-a-loos to relieve our bulging bladders or buy some food & drink from one of the many catering concerns on site, missing part of an act in the process. Occasionally we sat an act out because they didn't particularly interest us – Snoop Dog and Mariah Carey spring to mind. These were also prime opportunities to rest our aching legs, neither of us being used to standing for a whole day. Highlights for Marc, I think, were Velvet Revolver and Sting; and for me Bob Geldof (re-living his 'Live Aid' moment during “I Don't Like Mondays”), Annie Lennox and Joss Stone.

We also watched, with interest, footage shown on the giant screens to the sides and at the rear of the stage of the other 'Live 8' concerts going on simultaneously that day, in other parts of the world. It felt as if there was a real force for global change and finally we lesser-mortals had the attention of the most powerful leaders in the world: the G8. It felt like a real 'people-power' moment similar to that which we'd witnessed in the 90's after the fall of the Berlin Wall and the subsequent decline of Communism in Eastern Europe. Sadly, in retrospect, although the movement had some initial successes in its endeavour to eliminate poverty, since then it appears that what we were actually given by the G8 was mainly rhetoric and platitudes. In some instances promises, assurances and pledges made at that time have entirely failed to materialise. In my opinion this is a great and abiding shame. Of course in the current economic climate nothing will change; and if anything, more of the promises made that day are likely to be broken.

As the evening fell and the skies above London began to darken, Marc and I started to edge forwards in the crowd to get an optimal position for what would surely be the biggest highlight of the whole day: Pink Floyd's reunion performance. Slowly over the course of two or three hours we occupied spaces left by people in front of us as they moved back for toilet or refreshment breaks.

We both thoroughly enjoyed Robbie Williams and after years of completely misunderstanding my reverence for this British cultural icon, Marc finally got it. He could at long last see, hear and feel for himself what an incredible performer that guy is. Robbie truly held the entire audience in the palm of his hand with his inimitable charm, overwhelming panache and unbelievable charisma. His showmanship was on top form as he pleased the crowds with some of his greatest hits, having recently returned to the U.K. after a prolonged stint of living in America. He certainly didn't disappoint anyone.

After Robbie Williams' awesome performance we made the most territorial gains as the youngsters vacated their forward positions which were eagerly filled by 30- 40- and 50-somethings, like us desperate for the prospect of a better view of The Who, Pink Floyd and finally McCartney's grand-finalé. As we neared the barrier, which was the closest point we could get to the stage without a V.I.P. pass - excluded from the 'golden circle' as we were - competition grew fierce amongst the restless crowd. Many of the positions we tried to occupy were strenuously defended by people who'd been camped out there for the whole day. More than once we were threatened with violence by drunken or drugged-up louts, fiercely guarding their metre-square patch of turf whilst we stealthily inched forward into any free space which became available.

The Who provided some welcome relief from our stressful machinations. Happy with our hard won emplacement, two rows away from the barrier and slightly off-centre to the left of the sound-desk tent, Marc and I settled in to watch one of the hardest working bands in show business. Because only Roger Daltrey and Pete Townsend remained from the original line-up, the band on that night was supplemented with Steve White (Paul Weller's drummer) and Damon Minchella (Ocean Colour Scene's bassist). Despite this, and the fact that they were at that time celebrating 41 years in the business, they put on a performance worthy of the British rock stalwarts they truly were. Both Marc and I watched entranced as Daltrey swung his microphone and Townsend windmilled his way through “Who Are You” and “We Won't Get Fooled Again”. It was mind blowing to see them in full throttle, remaining almost as vigorous and energetic as they must have been in their youth. These two men who have inspired so many to learn instruments and start bands of their own were equally inspirational to me and I personally hope that I have as much energy and verve when I reach their age.

After the compelling delights provided by The Who, Marc and I held our premium position and I could see that Marc was barely able to contain his excitement with the prospect of all his dreams coming true in the very immediate future. There was a delay on stage and it was already becoming clear that the concert would over-run by a couple of hours. This precipitated a tension in the air as the Hyde Park audience wondered whether they'd be able to get a tube train home. The build up was excruciating and you could feel a tangible electric buzz from the masses of Floyd fans, old and new, waiting for the magic to begin.

An immense roar arose from the patiently waiting crowd as the familiar sound of a heartbeat which started the song “Speak to Me/Breathe” was heard through the giant P.A. system and a reunited Pink Floyd took the stage for the first time in 24 years. Marc's face was a picture, like a five year old boy faced for the first time with a jolly, bearded real-life Santa Claus; the delight and awe was only too evident. He was completely enraptured, caught up in a single moment in time; for him nothing else mattered except for the “right here and right now”. For me too the moment felt enormously significant, a once-in-a-lifetime chance to see these massive British rock legends do what they do best.

I was thoroughly entranced from beginning to end. The four all-too-familiar songs were executed perfectly. Roger Waters’ tribute to Syd Barrett at the beginning of “Wish You Were Here” caused a lump to rise in my throat. More tears started to well up when the four great men took a final bow, arms around each other in a symbolic display of unity. A greater and supremely worthy cause had motivated them to set their differences aside, just for once. They provided a few moments in time which, I'm sure, for everyone there will be remembered forever. Looking back these moments take on a particular poignancy; the recent death of keyboardist and founding member Rick Wright ensures that this magic will never be repeated.

After Pink Floyd had left the stage Marc looked disappointed and yet overwhelmed at what he had just witnessed. He thanked me again for enabling him to be there and seemed lost in wistful reverie. Although the show still wasn't over we felt that we'd already witnessed the highlight and our aching legs and feet longed for the chance to rest a while. This was of course impossible, we were completely packed in like sardines in the middle of the crowd and the proximity of others meant that sitting down wasn't an option. We resolved to ignore the aches and pains and watch the show's finalé as Paul McCartney was due back on stage; a nice way to round off, I thought, with the same person who had begun the whole event.

The world’s most celebrated, bass playing, rock 'n' roll icon finally reprised the whole show in his own highly professional and unforgettable style. I remember thinking how tired he must have been having spent the whole day on site knowing he'd have to remain fresh to complete his act. He was joined briefly by George Michael to help sing backing vocals on “Baby You Can Drive My Car” which elicited another huge cheer from the hordes of exhausted onlookers. Another poignant moment was McCartney's piano rendition of “The Long and Winding Road”, the lyrics of which now appeared to be about “The Long Walk to Justice” a march to Edinburgh, close to Gleneagles where the G8 summit was being held, taking place in 4 days time. I'd vowed to become involved in this as testament to my commitment to this cause, Marc unfortunately had to return home to the Netherlands but I'd be accompanied this time by my brother and his wife.

The whole cast of musicians appeared on stage for the extended coda finalé of 'Hey Jude' with Bob Geldof centre stage and once again there were more echoes of 'Live Aid' from twenty years previously. Then swiftly it was all over. As we began to leave Hyde Park, bowled along by the thronging masses I told Marc that I'd have to sit down just for a while by the gates to relieve my aching feet. We were both comprehensively tired and even though we'd been told that trains would keep running later than usual, there was still a sense of urgency to get out of town.

A few days later my brother, his wife and I were returning from Edinburgh on an early morning shuttle flight having attended “The Final Push”, a concert at Murrayfield to mark the end of “The Long Walk to Justice” featuring amongst many others the legendary performer that was James Brown. Although fatigued from very little sleep we were all quite buoyant upon arrival at Heathrow. The day before it had been announced that London's Olympic bid, against Paris, for the 2012 games had been successful and it seemed that, just for once, everything was right with the world. Making our way from the arrivals hall into the terminal we noticed that there were more policemen than would normally be seen at the airport and a strangely sombre atmosphere was pervading the place. My father picked us up in his car and immediately told us that, whilst we were airborne, terrorists had bombed several tube trains and a bus that morning in central London causing horrendous carnage. We all fell silent in a state of complete shock; there had been a threat that something like that might happen but nobody believed it really could or would.

I'd felt personally spoilt over the last week; I'd had the incredible fortune of being able to witness, first hand, live performances from some of the most celebrated rock and pop musicians ever. For someone like me, wholeheartedly interested in that genre, it had been a veritable orgy of delight, but right then I had the overwhelming feeling that the party was well and truly over.