How Beyoncé broke my mind, rain broke my body and a mouse broke my spirit

A week of two halves, you might say

There are bad weeks, there are chaotic weeks, and then there are weeks where you travel to another country to see Beyoncé and somehow end up with a respiratory infection, vertigo, a €150 Uber charge, a hotel mouse, and a missing passport.

At no point was my life in actual danger (aware of the privilege of alllllll of this) and yet I emerged from it emotionally and physically feeling as though I had survived something between I’m a Celebrity and the Leaving Cert with nothing but a cowboy hat and blind optimism.

Let me be clear: this is not a complaint. I saw Beyoncé *twice*. I would do it all again in a heartbeat. But I just might pack a hazmat suit and a tranquiliser gun the next time.

Part I: The show (feat. rain, panic and pelvic floor strength

It all began in Tottenham Hotspur Stadium on Saturday 7th of June where I stood — stood motionless — in the pouring rain for seven hours, waiting for Beyoncé to ascend from below her stars and stripes-clad stage and restore balance to my little universe. Did I know it would rain? Yes. Did I prepare for it? Emotionally, no. Physically, also no. But when you’ve waited a GD lifetime to hear Ameriican Requiem live, your adrenal glands take over and you forget that you're a human being with limits.

When she finally appeared, it was transcendent. Worth every single raindrop that pooled in my shoes and turned my socks into footsoup.

If the Cowboy Carter tour had ridden into town and done nothing but blast harmonica solos and let Beyoncé stare into our souls beneath a rhinestoned ten-gallon hat, it still would’ve been the cultural event of the year. But this? This was Beyoncé building an entire universe out of denim and life experience, and then baptising us in it under the torrential rain that fell from the North London sky.

From the moment she appeared — blonde hair crimped, cowboy boots shimmering, hat tipped in reverence — it was clear that Cowboy Carter is not just an album, it’s a statement, and the live show a 2.5-hour declaration of genre mastery, vocal supremacy and pure, unapologetic Texan drama.

She opened with Ameriican Requiem, her vocals unfurling like a heartbreaking church hymn. Hearing Protector live? AND mixed with Dangerously in Love? I momentarily forgot where I was. London disappeared. I was on a porch in Louisiana, sobbing into sweet tea.

The choreography snapped. The staging was cinematic. One moment, we were in a roadhouse rave for Spaghettii, the next we were line dancing to Jolene and screaming about how we all know desperate women, her unique take somehow making the song more threatening but also more beautiful.

And then — then — the mashups. The Ya Ya and Why Don’t You Love Me? breakdown that had 60,000 people attempting to twerk in ponchos? Sweet Honey Buckiin and Pure/Honey? GET AWAY Beyoncé you legend. And of course, Bodyguard performed while Julius looked on, adoringly. (Okay I added the ‘adoringly’ part to suit my own narrative. Ignore/don’t sue).

I actually think I was experiencing an out of body, transcendental sort of situation during Heated, particularly THE part (IYKYK) and was even filmed during it by her camera crew, such was my fervour. Any evidence that I was still alive at that point would be welcomed.

Vocally, she was – as always – untouchable. Every note intentional (and live, I can hear the dissenters already). Every run flawless. There’s a reason she doesn’t need a warm-up act — no one can stand next to her anymore.

By the time she closed the show with 16 Carriages – gliding through the stadium on a flying red car – I wasn’t even clapping anymore. I was vibrating. I had GONE. She turned Tottenham into the centre of the universe. Call it country. Call it Beyoncé. Either way, it’s a new genre now. And we are just lucky to be living in it.

HOWEVER. The journey home.

To set the scene: I had arrived to the Sweet Honey pit at 4pm, and got a place at the barrier. And anyone who knows will understand: You do NOT leave when you get barrier. So I stood there, not eating, not drinking, NOT PEEING, for close to seven hours. In biblical rain that didn’t stop one single time. Yes, Beyoncé was also soaked and yes, she continued on regardless and the show didn’t differ from when I saw it in the sunshine again the following Tuesday.

Moving on (or not, actually).