French Fries Hat Guy

The opening act we needed but didn’t get.

I did not plan to begin this adventure writing about Coldplay. But unforeseen occurrences can alter the best laid writing plans. At the cost of piling on to the pile on, I cannot ignore the events of Tuesday night.

It all began with a hat.

It’s a shiny polyester McDonald’s French fry container hat. On the off chance that the yellow tassels poking out of it are mistaken for the spikes of a virus, the words ‘French Fries’ are helpfully stitched across the hat. All said, it’s a silly hat. That’s the only reason I picked it off the party supplies shelf at a discount store near Iceland’s Keflavik international airport three weeks ago.

I’m attracted to items that can add a touch of whimsy to my appearance. Reporting on the fancy dress segment of the Mumbai Marathon three years running can do that.

It was, alas, several sizes too big and designed for a rounder, broader head than mine. On my head, it flopped with all the grace of a poser who wears a toque in the kitchen for vibes only. I couldn’t see the line between silly and stupid because the hat covered my eyes.

Fortuitously or more likely because no one else wanted it, the shelf was almost bare but for the hat. Once I saw it, I had to have it. I didn’t have a time or place or occasion in mind to wear it.

That was until last week, when the first waves of Coldplay news coverage broke online. The inspiration to dress up for the gig came from watching highlights of shows at the band’s earlier stop in Abu Dhabi. The cameras picked out attendees whose fun outfits Chris Martin could ad lib a verse to. Now, I didn’t have a Planet of the Apes latex mask so I made do with the next best thing. It was more a hopeful punt than attempting to game the system. The hat was meant to be a wheeze. Chips on a hat, in case the boys got hungry.

My four-month long nonchalance at landing tickets despite joining the farcical queue for the third Mumbai show half a minute before the virtual gates opened gave way to proper excitement when we found spots close to the stage, with a decent view of the drum kit and an even better one of Chris’ keyboard.

I won’t bother describing the show because there’s no mystery to a gig anymore. That’s a job best left to professional music reviewers. Besides, we can all agree that there’s no superlative left unused since Saturday.

Back to the hat. It terms of repelling the sun, it was for all purposes, an itchier bucket hat. But it had admirers.

With an hour and half to go for the headline act, I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Excuse me?” said a boy in a sleeveless black t-shirt and silver glitter sparkling on his temples, “Can I borrow your hat? We’re trying to find a friend. She’ll spot us because she was standing with us right behind you. I’ll give it back to you in a minute.”

Top-tier bullshit right up there with a pair of girls trying sometime earlier to push through a dense crowd of early worms because “we have family standing ahead.” Sure friend, you and everyone else. But since I’m a softy, quite gullible and couldn’t think of a reason to refuse, I said okay, just a shrugged okay, to both requests.

It crossed my mind that I might not see the hat again. Which would have hurt a lot less than seeing it atop glitter boy’s friend, who had eyes only for Jasleen Royal. A minute stretched to thirty and the hat, which was just a hat not a distress beacon, remained where it was. Unless glitter boy’s party intended to conduct their operation in the same thakela fashion as a bunch of teenagers searching for their missing companion earlier that afternoon by standing in one place and yelling her name (Samaira! Samira!! Samayra?) hoping the ground would spit her out and assuming correctly the girl had taken a shine to the hat, it wasn’t coming back.

I did what any respectable non-confrontational hat owner and responsible concert goer would do. Wait for Jasleen’s set to end before turning around to politely ask for it back. You had to see to believe the immense pain in her eyes. She knew what she was giving up.

At a concert famed for its crowd work, you don’t wear a goofy hat anymore just to crank up the atmosphere. Embracing a guided missile approach does take some of the fundamental spontaneity away from the experience but the hat demanded it.

And so, when Chris asked the filming crew to scan the crowd for some faces, who do you think they picked out first? See for yourself.

Maybe I didn’t need all these words only to plug a video some of you must have seen already. But how else could I tell you of the collective delight of dozens of strangers for the next hour at spotting the ‘French Fries Hat Guy’? I milked it all, the handshakes, the pointing and the compliments. I could have acknowledged better, smiled wider, with more teeth.

I’m pretentiously snobbish about virality and means of achieving it but I eat my words after winning a lottery and having Chris Martin fancy my hat. Helping the hat fulfill its potential topped off a brilliant concert.

Finally, a word of thanks to the hat’s sponsor – my wife’s credit card. You are my best friend.