From Gladstone to Grafton and all i-pod docks in between, there is scented fury in the air.
The concert to end all concerts is coming to Brisbane. And no-one can get a ticket.
If you have a daughter, of any age, you would know this. The females are going wild about One Direction.
For the lucky few who’ve escaped the frenzy, possibly by being in a coma, let me explain. They’re a British band. Five ridiculously good-looking boys. With big smiles, and giant mops of hair, and voices like angels.
The lads are setting fashion trends. I saw one the other night wearing a powder blue suit coat. A sterilized version of Sir Les Paterson. Another had braces. On his pants, not his teeth. And no-one seemed to mind.
Their Australian concerts so far have been noisy, high-pitched affairs. The fans, and the boys. The madness will continue here tomorrow night.
Tickets sold out before the windows opened. Mostly, it seems, to FM radio stations. There are giveaways every few seconds. I know this, because all our radios have been switched to strange frequencies.
There’s a catch, of course. Those deep-voiced guys behind the microphone will only give the cherished prizes to older people, who are willing to make giant fools of themselves.
Sing your favourite One Direction song. Get a tattoo of your favourite band member. Impersonate a screaming schoolgirl. Want front row tickets? Try all of the above.
Of course, the youngsters think they’re the first to go nuts over some pimply boys. If only they knew.
Find a groovy grandma, and there’s every chance she was throwing her sensible underwear at the Beatles a few decades ago.
Years later, female schoolmates were going crazy over some of Australian music’s finest.
An old flame had a huge crush on Shirley from Skyhooks. She would fight to get to the front of the stage, and hurl suggestions at him that still make me blush.
A few others in the gang were Sherbert tragics. They would actually cry when Daryl Braithwaite and the other band members appeared on Countdown. The rest of us had no chance.
But they always managed to snare a concert ticket. Without making their parents become performing mules.
I only have a few hours left. Wish me luck. Or better still, send me two tickets. It will save me getting that stupid tattoo of some kid named Harry.