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On Planet Swift, the queue for overpriced merch stretches as far as the eye. But I still don my pink cowboy hat and pledge allegiance to the Great One, writes ROBERT HARDMAN
We are two and a half hours into what most of this crowd would unhesitatingly call the greatest show on Earth, when a vast white bedframe is wheeled on to the stage.
Even her reported list of special requirements (known in the trade as a ‘rider’) pales before the demands of many a lesser diva: macaroni and cheese, liquorice Twizzlers and a Starbucks iced Americano every morning at 11am. With two teenage daughters and, latterly, a wife who can recite most of the Swiftian canon much like RSC actors do Shakespeare, my non-Swiftie son and I have grown used to entire conversations being peppered with random sayings of the blonde Sage of Tennessee. Having secured a pair of exorbitantly expensive black market tickets for two mediocre seats, I am on the 10am from London to Edinburgh for Day Two of the British leg of the Eras Tour, the most lucrative in pop history.
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