I don't do moshpits.

It's not that I've got anything against them. I thoroughly approve, in fact. Metal makes me feel aggressive and I'm sure it has the same effect on others. It doesn't make me want to inflict pain, just to fight. Further, I can only speculate about what effect it has on the supposedly naturally aggressive male psyche, but I gather it serves its purpose. The typical metalhead is easy to please: give him beer and good music, and he's happy. Without these, though, the experience, especially for the teenager, may be a fraught one, for he is left at the mercy of mocking chavs, his despairing mother, and his frustrated aims to become a rock star. Only more metal can soothe this pain, but the quest for it is far from trivial. One must fight dragons, demons and ravenning hordes - ok, no, I've clearly just been listening to too much POWER METAL, but age restrictions, parents' wishes, the inconveniences of the public transport system, and more than anything, the horrific cost of CDs, gig tickets and merchandise, must be overcome. And so, rather than take out his grievances chavs (noble though such an act is, it is far from wise), or worse, himself, he works them out by slamming into people more than happy to receive and return similar force. And I'm sure it's a consequence of this that the metal scene is very friendly and non-violent, in as much as injury isn't intended. Moshers automatically pick up anyone who goes down in the pit.

Nonetheless, I don't like to participate in them. As a relatively slim, highly intelligent, well-endowed female, once set in motion, my centre of gravity isn't very conducive to me being able to stop in a vaguely safe fashion. Besides that, I'm not good with sudden blasts of force: I find alarm clocks distressing enough, never mind large men barrelling into me from behind. Also, I don't drink at gigs, so any injuries I'd sustain would be felt. Thus, in my years of attending metal gigs and club nights, I have become adept at avoiding them, and never once endured a casualty.

On Thursday, though, I went to see The Haunted (who rocked) at London's Mean Fiddler. As it had been snowing, I thought the trains to London might not be running properly, so I caught one an hour and a half earlier than I normally do. It ran on time, so in the absence of anywhere to sit and write stuff, I wandered round Borders Books for a bit*, then turned up at the gig early.

(* Gah! There's a young adult author called C. Z. Nightingale! Noooooo! If I publish anything now, it's going to sound like I'm the same person, only married to a Mr Warnes! And no way am I publishing under my christian name. "Zed Nettler" it is, then.)

Now, in order to avoid moshpits, it is best to stand some distance away from the stage. However, if you do that, it can be a struggle to see the band, unless you're 6'7", and, in my snow-worthy boots, I'm only 5'4". The Mean Fiddler is particularly useless in this respect. Some venues make an attempt to combat this problem, either by having high stages or sloping floors. The Mean Fiddler, meanwhile, does the opposite: the front two rows of people stand UP a step, and the people at the sides of the room stand DOWN one.

The best alternative, then, is to stand in either the front row, or the second, if you can cling to the barrier. You get squished, but are able to remain fairly stationary. And since I'd got there so early, I made it to the middle of the second row.

This, however, turned out to be squishing beyond anything I'd ever experienced. Arms blocked my ears and knocked off my glasses, and I hadn't a hope of being able to raise my own free hand, never mind headbang. After two songs, I made a death-defying escape through the moshpit, but ended up at the edge of the second row, with a perfect view of the stage, and without having to endure any collisions from the surrounding people.

Except one. It came from out of the blue, and I toppled off the step and to the floor.

But!

Apart from the floor being rather icky, the experience was, in fact, positively pleasant! Every bruise I'd received started buzzing, which, in the warmth of the venue, served only as sensations, rather than aches. I felt more alive, more in tune with the music. Thrash metal is so much more involving with a few battle scars, it seems.

Hmmm, I thought at the time, I need to orchestrate this to happen more often.

I have rethought my conversion to masochism though. Because the day afterwards? Owwww. Moshpits are bad and I need a massage. Bryn's position at the top of my Total Pillock List remains assured, as he got me some products from the pharmaceutical company where he works (hopefully massage ones, not enemas) then spectacularly failed to hand them over.