Confessions of a secret U2 fan
If I can take you into my confidence for a moment or two, I would like to make a guilty admission. I am a closet fan of the rock band U2. This pathology from which I suffer was once worse; much, much worse. And what’s more, at one point I wore my status with Pride (even in the name of love?). When I was seventeen or eighteen (merely a Boy), not only did I own every U2 release, but I held in contempt anyone who even so much as suggested that Bono and co were, well, Bad. Additionally I read avidly every book and interview that I could get my hands on which had even a tangential relevance to the group or its music. I had album posters in my room and I greeted as manna from heaven almost every pronouncement which the singer made from behind those ridiculous wraparound shades. Hell, I even paid a dubious character in a pub near Lansdowne Road over one hundred Republic of Ireland pounds to secure a ticket for the band’s Popmart show. Such, at that time, was my Desire (ahem). U2 were ...