I had an epiphany at the Limp Bizkit show.
Could the wigs, masks, weird cover songs and dodgy sex jokes mean something?
The floor was sticky with spilt beer, the crunch of plastic cups underfoot echoing around the venue.
The doors had only been open for an hour and the show hadn’t even started, but the man standing next to me in a black T-shirt with a big beard was desperate to tell someone, anyone, just how happy he was.
So he tapped me on the shoulder and lunged his pla…
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