I'm a Mission virgin.
Yes, you heard correctly. I have not made it to any of the 20 Mission acts that have graced Greenmeadows' green meadow.
And as if that wasn't tragic enough, it gets worse.
Yesterday, lamenting the fact I'd missed Rod Stewart for the second time in the Bay, I spent three hours cleaning up concert-goers' rubbish.
Me, my two sons and a few hundred volunteers arrived at the concert venue about 7.30am for a school fundraiser. The brief was to render the hill green again.
Twenty minutes earlier, to get into the Rod mood in the car I pushed play on his The Best Of. My sons, who had never heard raspy Rod before, both voiced their displeasure. "He sounds like an old man on the toilet" and "He sounds like a cicada".
The already despondent mood took a further dive when we arrived at the gates to a hillside resplendent with every colour of garbage known to man. The concert had been followed by a litter festival.
Donning latex gloves, we joined hundreds of others to bend and pick our way through revellers' refuse.
One guy boasting a stinging hangover wasn't coping too well with the wealth of paté and humus smeared into the wet grass. Another kid shrieked with pleasure as he unearthed a $20 note. A grape-growing friend of mine beamed as he flashed a found Lotto ticket.
The job, billed as tedious and boring, just got interesting.
There was a lovely bit of irony in that some of us unable to afford a ticket were sifting through the spoils of those who could.
The act of traversing the steep but treasure-troved hillside put a spring in the stride of the adolescent volunteers.
Oh, and yes, there was the odd wine bottle and beer can lying around.
After three hours of picking up half-eaten hotdogs, chips, glow sticks, smashed sunglasses, broken jandals, woollen blankets, scores of plastic ponchos, coleslaw and thousands of chicken drums.
It was both nauseous and intriguing. One party had seemingly tried to bury thousands of chicken bones into the hillside. It was like I'd uncovered an ancient burial ground.
There were intriguing tastes - some had brought Mediterranean eats, such as capers, sundried tomatoes and olives, others indulged in more Kiwi staples like the good old-fashioned filled rolls and coleslaw. Some food was unidentifiable.
The Mission is also where deckchairs come to die. Some were fixable, others looked like they'd been ravaged by something with claws then spun in cement mixers. I threw at least a dozen into the bin.
Discarded umbrellas also lay dying post battle on the hillside. When the wind got up they flapped their belated goodbyes to Rod.
But what a sense of achievement. The schoolkids and their folks did a great job (and yes, riches of any worth were of course handed in). I came away with no Rod memorabilia, but with a strong sense of achievement.
At least the next time someone asks if I've been to a Mission concert I'll be able to say "No, but I went to one hell of an after-party once".
Mr Stewart, I apologise for missing you both times you were here. Please come back for the 30th Mission Concert - where we will again honour you with our litter.