Stage Diving : Not For Fat Lads Some years ago, in the hazy, alcohol fuelled days of my youth, I was attending an all day metal gig in Bradford. The crowd was pretty good, much booze had been drunk and by the time and things were getting fairly lively at the front as the headline act took to the stage. The stage was easily accessible and security was non-existent leading to a constant stream of people running in front of the singer and launching themselves onto the waiting hands of the crowd. Except, a shadow appeared at one side of the stage, as he emerged into the lights he appeared to be the size of Meatloaf and Messiah Marcolin combined. He ambled across the stage, the guitarists exchanged worried looks. The lumbering behemoth reached the point of no return, he reached the stage front and, well he didn't exactly dive, more sort of toppled off with a terrible inevitability. As the light was blocked out above them, a hundred people simultaneously thought, "Fuck this." The crowd parted like the Red Sea, and the big man fell into the gap with a nasty wet smack. Then he didn't move, his best mate ran forwards and tried to pick the big man up. Big man's nose was now squashed all over his face, he was pouring blood and was escorted groggily off to one side. His mate was screaming blue murder but received some typical words of care and comfort, "Nobody pushed the fat fucker." At another gig we were so tightly packed that I had to stand with one arm raised in the air, I think I'd had to scratch my nose and the crowd was so dense I couldn't lower my arm again. A lunatic stage diver came off feet first and connected solidly with side of my head. My glasses flew off and in a thousand to one chance shot right into my upheld hand, so my specs were safe. When I woke up the following morning though, I had a very clear and sore imprint of a boot sole on my right cheek and temple.