That Night We Slept Rough in a Hospital

And Why It Was Perfect

Right, need to tell you about the gig that should’ve been a disaster but somehow became one of the best nights of my life.

First year at ACM. Still figuring out who I was, what I wanted to sound like. But I knew one thing for certain, I needed to be on stage. Not streaming to three people. Not busking on the high street.

Proper stages. Proper shows.

So I did what any ambitious first-year would do. Started a band with my flatmates. We’d jam in our spare time, turned my bedroom demos into actual songs, and convinced ourselves we were the next big thing.

Spoiler Alert: We absolutely were not.

The Pay-to-Play Trap

Here’s something embarrassing I’ve never properly admitted. I fell for every single trap young musicians fall into.

Pay-to-play? Signed up immediately. £7 per ticket, had to sell minimum 20 to even get stage time.

Know how many I actually sold to real fans? Maybe five. On a good night.

The rest? I bought them myself. Hundreds of pounds down the drain, too ashamed to admit I couldn’t shift them. My mum bought some. My sister felt bad for me and grabbed a few. Even then, I’d still come up short and panic-buy the remainder an hour before doors.

Absolutely pathetic.

Started killing my confidence, if I’m honest. That voice in my head going on about “If you can’t even give tickets away for free, what makes you think you’re any good?”

When Everything Changed

Then I found HotVox. London-based company running shows with zero pay-to-play bollocks. Their rule was simple: bring more people, play bigger venues.

Perfect for us. We loved intimate rooms anyway. Somewhere we could actually connect with the 15 people who showed up rather than pretending to be stadium-ready.

We got good. Properly good. Tight setlist. Actual stage presence. The whole thing.

Then one night, the email landed:

“Fancy playing The Camden Assembly?”

The Bucket List Venue

Mate. THE Camden Assembly?!?

I’d watched The 1975 do an intimate gig there just months before. Dreamed about standing on that same stage. And now they were asking US?

Course we said yes.

Day of the show, we did our usual ritual - walked Camden, grabbed food, tried not to vomit from nerves. Stood in the green room The 1975 had been in, feeling like absolute frauds but also like we’d somehow made it.

Then we played.

And it was fucking brilliant.

Best show we’d done as a band. Everything clicked. Every joke landed. Every transition smooth as butter. We got off stage absolutely buzzing, convinced this was the beginning of something massive.

So naturally, we celebrated. Few pints. Chatting with other bands. Living that proper musician life, you know? Networking. Building relationships. Being professionals.

Completely forgot to check the time.

The Five-Minute Disaster

11:00pm. Train’s at 11:50.

Should’ve been fine, right? Except the tube had closed. Because London’s public transport has a sick sense of humour.

We laughed it off. Still riding that post-show high. Made a new plan… the night bus. For you Americans reading this, think Harry Potter

Now, anyone who knows London knows the night bus through Camden is sketchy as absolute fuck. Especially when you’re carrying thousands of pounds worth of music gear.

We sat there, silent, praying nobody would clock the obvious students with expensive equipment. Every stop felt like Russian roulette. Every person getting on might be the one who decides tonight’s the night they fancy a free guitar.

Nearly an hour later, we made it to the station.

Five minutes late.

FIVE. MINUTES.

Stared at those closed doors like they’d personally betrayed us.

The Hospital Solution

Reality set in fast: We’re sleeping rough tonight.

Outside the station? Guaranteed robbery. Our equipment alone would’ve paid someone’s rent. We needed somewhere safe. Somewhere warm. Somewhere we wouldn’t get our heads kicked in before sunrise.

Then we spotted it. The hospital.

Doors were locked, needed an employee card. So we did what any desperate students would do and hid in the shadows until someone arrived for night shift. Then we slipped in behind them like we belonged there.

Didn’t even make it past reception before getting caught.

This woman, probably been awake 18 hours already, stops us dead:

“You can’t be here at this time.”

We pleaded. Explained the whole pathetic saga. The gig, the celebration, the five minutes, the expensive gear, the absolute terror of sleeping rough in London.

She must’ve felt sorry for us. Or maybe she recognised that specific flavour of young-musician desperation. Either way, she pointed towards the cafe.

“Stay there. Don’t cause trouble.”

The Best Night We Never Planned

We sat in that 24-hour hospital cafe literally all night. Didn’t sleep a second.

Just talked.

Properly talked. The kind of conversations you only have at 3am when you’re exhausted and your defences are down. Every embarrassing moment. Every insecurity. Every fear about whether we’d actually make it or if we were just delusional kids playing dress-up.

Here’s the mad part, I barely knew these lads. Less than a year. Just some guys I’d met in halls who also played instruments.

But that night? That horrible, ridiculous, shouldn’t-have-happened night?

That’s when we became actual brothers.

One of them’s still my best mate. Long after the band dissolved, after we all went our separate ways, after the dream died and new dreams took its place.

That bond stuck.

What Getting Stranded Taught Me

Made the 5:30am train looking like absolute zombies. Slept through most of the next day. Swore we’d never do that again.

But here’s the thing… I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

Not for the gig. Not for Camden Assembly or ticking off some bucket list venue.

For that hospital cafe. For those conversations. For that moment when music stopped being about the stage and became about the people you’re willing to freeze your arse off in a hospital with at 4am.

The rock and roll life, 100%

Except it’s not really about the rock and roll at all. It’s about finding your people. The ones who’ll sit in a hospital cafe with you because you collectively fucked up and missed the last train.

The ones who get it. Who understand why you spent hundreds on tickets you couldn’t sell. Why you keep showing up even when nobody’s watching. Why this ridiculous, expensive, heartbreaking thing matters so much.

Seven years later, I’ve played bigger venues. Better shows. Made actual money instead of losing it.

But that night? Missing the train by five minutes and ending up in a hospital?

Still one of the best gigs I ever played.

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What disaster turned into your favourite memory? When did everything going wrong somehow go perfectly right? Drop it below - I need to know I’m not the only one who finds magic in the chaos.