Alright, you pathetic nostalgia junkies, gather ’round while I spit the truth about last Tuesday night, when my ball-and-chain – affectionately known as Mrs. Spider – yanked me off my crappy laptop and hauled my protesting carcass to the BP Pulse in Birmingham. Why? Because apparently, my life’s not miserable enough without reliving the early 2000s through a “battle of the bands” circle-jerk called Busted VS McFly. Yeah, that’s right: two relics from the era of flip phones and questionable haircuts, duking it out with chart-toppers and stage antics like it’s some kind of gladiatorial pop spectacle. And me? I’m the unwilling spectator in this arena of arrested development.
The carnage kicks off with McFly bursting through trapdoors like over-caffeinated jack-in-the-boxes, blasting ‘Where Did All The Guitars Go?’ with enough energy to power a small city. No foreplay, straight into ‘Star Girl,’ and the crowd loses their collective shit. Danny Jones, Tom Fletcher, and Dougie Poynter strut around with that effortless charisma bullshit, synced up like they’ve been doing this since before half the audience could legally drink. It’s clear these bastards have honed their act over the years – solid dynamic, no cracks, just pure, unadulterated pop efficiency.
They plow through their back catalogue like a bulldozer on meth: ‘One for the Radio,’ ‘Transylvania,’ ‘Room on the 3rd Floor’ – all the cult hits that make the thirtysomethings in the crowd regress to squealing teens. Toss in some fresh meat like ‘Happiness’ and ‘Red,’ and damn if it doesn’t hold up. The new stuff slots right in with the old, proving these guys aren’t just coasting on faded glory. By the time ‘All About You’ hits, the place turns into a goddamn karaoke apocalypse, everyone belting it out in a tidal wave of feel-good vomit. They cap it with ‘The Heart Never Lies,’ strutting off like conquerors, leaving Busted with a mountain to climb.
Enter Busted, storming a stage rigged like a boxing ring – fitting, since this whole thing’s a farce. They launch into ‘Crashed the Wedding’ with rowdy abandon, but hold up: Just the day before, guitarist James Bourne posts on social media that he’s too sick to play, the poor sod. Matt Willis and Charlie Simpson pause for a sappy shout-out, then drag James’s kid brother Chris onstage to plug the gap. Heartwarming? Sure, if you’re into that family-values crap.
What follows is a pop-punk blitzkrieg: Riffs that punch you in the gut, drums that rattle your fillings, vocals that scream rebellion from a safer time. ‘You Said No,’ ‘Loser Kid,’ ‘Thunderbirds Are Go!’ – they hammer through the fan faves without mercy, each one met with roars that could wake the dead. It yanks you back to Busted’s heyday, when life was simpler and music was louder. They seal it with ‘What I Go to School For,’ turning the arena into a mosh pit of hormonal frenzy.
But wait, the “battle” ain’t over. McBusted reunites for an epic drum duel between Harry Judd and Eddy Thrower – pure musicianship porn, if you’re into that. Then Matt Willis and Dougie Poynter pop up in the tiered seats on opposite sides, belting ‘Hate Your Guts’ to amp up the rivalry and rope in the crowd like we’re all part of the show. Busted fires back with ‘Air Hostess,’ McFly counters with ‘Five Colours in Her Hair’ – a final salvo that leaves everyone buzzing.
The whole mess climaxes with both bands jamming ‘Year 3000,’ confetti raining down like the gods’ dandruff, fans cheering their lungs out. Winner? Officially, none declared. But let’s cut the bullshit: Both these fossils have outlasted trends, scandals, and the march of time, still packing arenas with timeless hooks and infectious energy. They captivate because they remind us of a world before everything went to digital hell – back when music was fun, not algorithm fodder.
Me? I walked out questioning why I let Mrs. Spider drag me into this saccharine time warp. But hell, in a world choking on cynicism, maybe a dose of pop-punk absurdity is the antidote we deserve. Or maybe it’s just more escapism for the masses. Either way, if you’re chasing that nostalgic high, this tour’s your fix. Just don’t blame me when you wake up humming ‘Star Girl’ and hating yourself.
Stay filthy, you time-traveling twats.
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