Tuesday, 9:00 am: The worst-kept secret in showbiz (for the past three days, anyway) has been confirmed. The rock ‘n’ roll stars are back, baby, and the world is crazy about it. Rumors of a ticket frenzy for Oasis concerts in Ireland and the UK are forcing those in the trenches in 2023, still suffering from PTSD, to recall the horrors of the Coldplay and Taylor Swift battle.

There are jokes about restricting access to the old people who paid £6.50 to see the band at the Tivioli in 1994 or who can sing Supersonic and Live Forever word for word after 40 Major and 11 pints of ale. People who use TikTok should absolutely be banned, the old people are sweating.

There is some joy that there will be none of the pre-sale or surge pricing nonsense that concert promoters are so fond of these days. It will be a full-blown bun fight at 8am on a Saturday morning, a cruel and unusual time for a band like Oasis to be putting tickets up for sale, but at least we’ll all be in it together.

Tuesday, 5:00 PM: There’s a bloody advance sale. To get in, we have to take part in a vote – a vote, no less. I’m totally into it. There’s a mini table quiz involved, which is really exciting. I answer the first question with confidence. I’ve seen the band 1-2 times. In fact, the only time they opened for REM was in Slane in 1995. As far as I can remember, they were great. Liam swore at us, they sang the big songs from their first album and a few from their second before ending with I Am The Walrus.

The second question is a mystery to me. Who is the original drummer? No idea. Like millions of others, I immediately google his name, answer the question, and then wait for confirmation that I am in a queue to get a code that will allow me to join another queue so I can maybe buy tickets. And how much will they cost? No idea, but the folks at MCD have put out a jaw-dropping press release stating that tickets will be “starting at €86.50”, excluding the whopping Ticketmaster service fee. €86.50? That seems reasonable, fair play to them.

( Oasis ticket sales open with fixed prices of over €400 and 500,000 fans in lineOpens in new window )

Wednesday, 7:30 am: No sign of my code or even any acknowledgement from the band that I got the drummer’s name right and that I’ve been entered into the voting for pre-sale access. I enter again with a different email address. This time I know the answer to the drummer question without needing Google.

Wednesday, 1:00 PM: Where the hell is my code? I check my spam folder. There’s nothing there. People around me are getting comments from the Gallagher Brothers, but I have nothing. I wasn’t too worried about seeing the band, but now that I might miss out because I don’t have the code, I’m going to be furious.

Thursday, 4:00 PM: Still no mail from Oasis. The deadline for confirming my participation in the vote is Friday 10am.

Friday, 09:51 am: Still nothing. I check my spam folder. Nothing there either. Then I look disconsolately at the gmail folder marked “bin”, a place I’ve never visited before for many reasons, the main one being that I didn’t even know it existed. But there – shining like a golden ticket in a Wonka bar – is an email from Oasis. It was sent over 36 hours earlier asking me to confirm my participation in the vote. With seven minutes to go before the closing date, I click the confirm button and I’m in. Or so I think.

( The Irish Times’ take on 90s nostalgia: don’t look back with angerOpens in new window )

Friday, afternoon: I feel like I’m in a 21st century poptastic version of Waiting for Godot. No sign of a code. But I have time on my side. Oasis have said that anyone who gets a code will have it by 5pm. I’ve got five hours before I have to panic.

Friday, 2:00 PM: Still no code. I only know one person who has one. Oasis social media accounts say all codes have now been sent. I am being left behind.

Friday, 7:05 PM: I’m like a sickly latchkey kid in rags staring through the coal-dusted window of a candy store at all the kids in bucket hats sucking up the delicious ticket goodies. Some of the goodies seem pretty pricey to me. MCD said tickets would start at “€86.50.” But most people on my X-feed are paying more than double that. Some people are being asked to pay over €400 for tickets. Some will say that’s a scam. “But it’s probably just a pre-sale,” I think. “The cheap seats will definitely be available tomorrow.”

Saturday, 7.15 am: The alarm goes off and I jump out of bed, log into my Ticketmaster account and get the green light to go into a waiting room, where I’m allowed to queue up to buy tickets to the “Status Quo of the 90s,” as Damon Albarn once cruelly, if not entirely inaccurately, called them. I start to question my life choices, but I’m swept up in the hysteria.

Saturday, 8:00 am: It’s showtime. I’m led from the waiting room to the line by Ticketmaster, a quiet drum roll playing in my head as I wait to find out where I stand in that line. I’m confident that I’ll be higher up than I was for Taylor Swift when I started with over 65,000 people in front of me.

Saturday, 8:01 am: 138,393rd. I do some math. If each of them buys just one ticket and only 20,000 tickets are sold in pre-sale, I’m still in. There’s still hope.

I’m entering the first stage of grief: denial.

Saturday, 8:03 am: This is outrageous. How dare Ticketmaster treat me like this. Me! The man who has been lecturing the nation for days on how to best get Oasis tickets. I think it’s England’s fault. How dare they all be allowed to buy tickets for a concert in Croke Park an hour before tickets go on sale for their own country. It’s outrageous.

I got angry.

Saturday, 8:30 am: I slowly move forward in the queue, but there are still over 100,000 people ahead of me. I can’t go any further, I move on. Are all the tickets gone? They must be gone. No, wait. A message from Ticketmaster has appeared. It tells me to wait. There are still tickets, there is still a chance. I wonder if I should hit refresh? Maybe I’ll be in a better position if I open a new browser. There must be something I can do?

To negotiate.

Saturday, 09.57 am: It’s over. There are 84,655 people ahead of me, and the line is moving agonizingly slowly—although much faster than it was an hour ago. There may still be tickets left, but if there are, they’re going for more than $400, essentially because there’s the dynamic pricing model that accountants love. Standing room tickets that were less than $200 at the start of the day are now going for double that.

I realize I don’t have that kind of money and even if I did I wouldn’t be spending it on Oasis. I’ve wasted my Saturday morning and could still be in bed with the rest of my family. But here I am, sitting on my couch all alone with nothing to show for it.

My journey through the different stages of grief led to depression.

Saturday, 11.35 am: The sun is shining. I’m finally at the top of the queue, but I’ve lost interest. And I’m not keen to endorse the pricing model of the band and their promoters. I miss the days when tickets cost a certain amount and that was it. I’m happy for all the fans who got their tickets – no matter how they paid – and I hope they have a great time at the shows, but I won’t be there and that’s fine with me. I won’t look back in anger. Acceptance, but not resignation.