Cool Pools of Adrenalin.

 Just tried to buy a ticket for something from an Arts Centre. 

Now. 

I know everything is terrible now. I know it has to be. For "security". For "my protection". Because Arts Centres are under-funded and under-subscribed and desperate to add you to their Mailchimp subscriptions, because they have no reach, no advertising budget and nothing popular to sell. 

I understand. Believe me. I understand too horribly well. I appreciate the irony. 

Morrissey, after refreshing his computer for 16 hours, is hurled out of the Oasis ticket queue and accused of being a bot: "Is that a sexual slur?" he rages against the machine. 

That said, fucking hell, you're annoying. There was a point in the past  - and it feels like a dream now - you'd ring up and say ,"I would like a ticket for the show", and they'd send you a ticket, in the post. A physical object, with a bit of design on it. People used to keep their tickets as lovely souvenirs of a wonderful evening.  

Today I went onto the website. I found the event and clicked on it. I pressed "buy ticket". I told them the amount of tickets I wanted, and pressed next. I came to a screen that demanded to know my address OR I could type in my e-mail address and password if I was a "member" of the venue hosting the event. I opted to become a member, and it policed my various password suggestions, asking me to make it stronger and stronger, like I would if someone was concocting a gin and tonic in my vicinity. Eventually I composed one it liked, and we moved on and, though now a member, it STILL wanted my address details. So I filled in their on-line form and pressed "next". At this point they wanted me to give them a donation. I'm in the arts, guys, I know how hard it is to get people to give me money because nobody ever gives me money. Perhaps the right time to ask for a donation is after the event, when I've had a great time and found it really valuable, not when I haven't even bought the ticket yet. And what do you need my fucking address for? The best I'll get from this is a confirmation e-mail.  

I looked around for the "sorry, I can't really afford to give you free money" option. It wasn't there. At this point, I noticed there was a time limit to the transaction. A clock was ticking away. They'd added jeopardy to the task like I was on the Crystal Maze. 

I imagine. I haven't seen the Crystal Maze. None of it. 

I thought fuck this, and went to complain to poor Susan for a couple of minutes. Then I came back, picked the smallest donation option, and pressed "continue". 

They wanted my bank details. So I put in my bank details. Then, for my security they insisted on sending a one-time passcode to my phone. So I went and got my phone. They had not sent a one-time passcode to my phone. I looked at the ticking clock. I had four minutes to compete this transaction. Probably should have complained less to Susan. Or faster. 

There's a ping! The passcode! I type it in. 

Computer says...well, you can guess. 

I swear. It asks me if I want to try again. I try again. It drags it's heels, but sends me another passcode. Time is ticking away. If this were a film there would be a massive close-up of my face, detailing the pool of sweat forming in my philtrum, while my lips are dry and cracked like an old riverbed. My busy tongue is darting between arid gnashers as I type in the code. 

It works. I'm on the "confirm order" page with seconds to spare. I confirm. Take my money!

I receive a confirmation e-mail. I slump back in the chair. Someone slaps me on the back. I light a cigarette. The adrenaline pools cooly in my trousers. Phew. 

I mean, a phone call would have been easier, is all I'm saying.