I knew this was trouble when I walked in

Cavanman's Diary

It took a lost weekend, in a tiny hotel room in Amsterdam, for me to find my inner Swifty.

Before I tell you about it, though, a brief lesson in etymology, Cavan-style. A swifty, to the best of my knowledge, was always shorthand – quick-talking townie lingo, not repeated by us drawling country boys from eight miles out the road - for a late half-one at the bar, a nightcap just before last orders. Then, about two or three years ago, a new meaning crept into my consciousness; I don’t know when it happened – it came dropping slowly – but before I knew it, well, I knew it.

Suddenly, I found myself aware that there are millions of people out there who adore Taylor Swift, that theirs is a cult-like devotion and, most worryingly, my wife is among their number. You think you know someone…

Anyway, that was how, 10 days ago, I found myself at the Johan Cruyff Arena in Amsterdam, surrounded by the standing (and screaming) army of Swifties, many of its regiments female-only, adorned in Swiftie wristbands and dressed – I’m not making this up – in certain styles, which paid homage to particular albums.

Ordinarily, I would be questioning my life choices. What had I done to deserve this? In a previous existence, was I a serial kicker of kittens or pilferer of other people’s packed lunches? Who knows… Regardless, I soon made my peace with it. Me and karma vibe like that…

Now, I must tell you that I had a few swifties myself – the townie version – before entering ground zero. The phrase ‘Dutch courage’ apparently stems from a time when English soldiers skulled gin from the Netherlands to settle the nerves before a gruelling battle. Taking my cue from history, I embarked on a similar exercise – although the Stella Artois I was drinking is brewed over the border in Leuven - and braced myself for the three-and-a-half hours Taylorthon.

Nothing, though, could prepare me for the Swifties. Engrossed as I am in the tragic love story that is Cavan football, you learn to relish the surreal and, tuning in to the terraces, you grow immune to, and amused by, the irrational. Still, I figured that ubiquitous Gaelic football lunacy would have given me a grounding, a base to work off. I suppose I thought I had an appreciation for a certain type of manic fandom – but this was something new altogether.

I had realised as much about a week before the gig. Tay Tay was on heavy rotation in our house and I began to read up on the whole caper. God help me, I even looked up some online fans’ forums.

Now, I should explain further about what was going on. This show we were attending was part of The Eras Tour in which Taylor performs tracks from her extensive back catalogue. So, she is not touring a new album with some old favourites thrown in, which is usually the way; this is more of a greatest hits type affair.

As part of that, I learned from my extensive online research, there is a phenomenon called “surprise songs” on this tour. What that means is that one section of the show is totally random; she plays different numbers every night. This – what tunes she will play in that four-song part of the performance - is a source of deep intrigue for the Swifties, some of whom study the patterns, like weather forecasters, and can predict with a degree of certainty which numbers are up next and when the scattered showers of salty tears might blow in.

I know what you’re thinking - wait a minute, is that not how all concerts work? The artist has a few dozen songs and from those, they will vary the set list to some degree every night. And you’d be right - but on Planet Swifty, the rules are different, much different. More on this later.

So there I was, standing outside the stadium, belly full of Belgian beer, when I began to notice quite a few grown men – all in, males made up approximately 2% of the attendance, heterosexual males less than 1% by my estimation - wearing American football jerseys with KELCE and the number 87 on the back. On enquiring with my better half – who was in a state of extreme excitement by this stage, just short of speaking in tongues and fainting – it turned out that Taylor’s boyfriend is Travis Kelce of the Kansas City Chiefs and these lads were paying homage to him.

It was at this point I seriously considered a pivot befitting the great Dutch master after whom the grounds are named, a Cruyff turn, leaving my markers for dead. But it was too late and I decided, if you can’t beat them, get slightly drunker than them, which wasn’t hard to do anyway seeing as at least half the audience were underage.

Anyway, in we went and found our seats and I must admit, once we were through the turnstiles and I saw the roofed arena packed and sensed the sheer happiness all around, I was taken by the whole thing. I knew enjoying this night would require the suspension of disbelief - I would have to accept that T-Swizzle really was a girl-next-door made good, that she was one of us and, damn it, she cared about us - but I surprised myself by how much I got into it.

So, when Taylor told us how truly delighted she was to be there in (checks notes) Amsterdam, I found myself whooping with the best of them. A change had come over me. I was, as the song says, ready for it.

And there followed the most sensational concert I’ve ever been at. I’ve never seen a performer hold a crowd the way she did. Of course, the curmudgeon in me puts part of it down to something akin to folie à deux, also known as shared delusional disorder, which I reckon is more common than people think. Certainly, I’ve seen it occur at football matches – fellas, and women (because as we all know, Mammies are the worst offenders) going loco down in Bailieboro’ or wherever it may be.

But never like this – the hysteria was there but none of the nerves that are a feature of football fandom, no fear of inevitable crushing disappointment. No worries, no strife. This was sheer, unadulterated joy, delight unconfined, like I imagine the feeling at the final whistle when Cavan win the All-Ireland, only elongated over three-and-half-hours.

When the gig concluded, we made our way into the night. The Swifties, adorned in €75 Eras Tour hoodies (I drew the line there), were singing as they strolled arm-in-arm.

Back at the bar, I met an Irish guy at that most macho place, the urinal. “Were you at Taylor Swift?” he asked me (men have been clobbered for less). I eyed him warily.

“I… was,” I replied cagily.

“Ah, she’s unreal!” he gushed. “Was it good?”

“Brilliant,” I found myself saying, “the surprise songs were fantastic.”

I immediately knew I’d gone too far. An awkward silence descended. My new acquaintance looked at me with pity; I’d said too much. “The surprise songs were fantastic”. What had I become?

As Miss Americana herself says, it may be exhausting always rooting for the anti-hero but I’m used to it and I like it. There’s comfort in being a cynic.

I avoided further eye contact as I dried my hands and silently vowed never to sin against my masculinity again.

Until, that was, at the airport, when my resident Swifty suggested googling tickets for another leg of the tour and… let’s just say she knows me all too well...