We watched the Bob Dylan television programme, ‘No Direction Home’, directed by Martin Scorsese.

I was quite interested. The LTLP lay on the sofa, radiating ‘this is shit’ vibes. She is not an intellectual like me.

I don’t know much about Martin Scorsese but he also did the video for ‘Bad’ by Michael Jackson so he clearly knows a lot about film making. It was pretty good but I think he could have broken it up a bit more by including clips of people like Paul Ross, Kate Thornton etc. talking about the songs, his funny hat and haircut etc.

Scorsese showed him playing in Newcastle with his controversial new electric backing band. They were brilliant and it was an unexpectedly good recording quality as well. Unfortunately Bob Dylan seemed to be a bit pissed and just stood there looking at the ceiling and shouting the words. He was rubbish. I would have yelled at him as well. Just because he is a genius doesn’t mean that he shouldn’t make a bit of an effort to hit the notes.

Although one thing was noticeable – the hecklers were loud and cross-sounding, but by no means the obvious majority. They just shouted the loudest. Like angry commenters on a political web log they just wanted to spoil it for everybody else.

Tonight we will presumably see the famous heckle of ‘Judas!’ followed by Dylan’s equally famous put-down reply of ‘I don’t belieeeve you’. He must lie awake at nights still thinking “why oh why could I not think of a better comeback than that? Something like ‘oh yes, I remember my first pint’ or something.”

Was he a genius? Of course, and a visionary. Only recently people have been talking about how he anticipated the levees breaking in New Orleans, and the Mayor of that city must be kicking himself for not sorting out the pumps whose handles had been so irresponsibly removed by vandals. And there was quite a hard rain the other night, or certainly there was to the south over towards Swaffham.

But now with my Post Office stuff Bob has passed the baton, and it is one that I am happy to pick up and run with. Popular music no longer has the power it once had to change the world, and it is now up to us New Journalists. It is a big responsibility but I will try not to let him down.

I do not normally do TV reviews on here, as fans expect stories about Short Tony getting drunk.

This is my ‘gone electric’.

Links:
My favourite Bob Dylan album
Kate Thornton IMDB entry

“Well that was really terribly good,” I remarked to Narcoleptic Dave.

Nods of appreciation all round.

We chattered away enthusiastically as we left the Arts Centre, like extras in a BBC drama who have been instructed to behave like typical people leaving an Arts Centre. In fact Bill Bryson’s one-man show, imaginatively titled ‘An Evening with Bill Bryson’ had been excellent. He is one of those people that manages to write tight, very funny vignettes about nothing in particular, which is the most difficult type of writing there is, and only the most brilliant can do it.

A lady thrust something into my hand, and my whole world came crashing down around me.

Occasionally, especially as one approaches the second half of one’s life, one notices little signs about ageing. A more-than-passing interest in the snooker. Annoyance about loud music. Television programmes that one watches being interrupted by stairlift commercials. That sort of thing.

I read the flyer.

‘Alan Titchmarsh presents “Fill my Stocking” – a Christmas Anthology’.

Now, I have nothing whatsoever against Alan Titchmarsh. Easy targets are Not My Bag, and having a go at Alan Titchmarsh is not so much like shooting fish in a barrel than chucking two litres of rohypnol into the aforementioned barrel and following it with a stick of dynamite. He has his audience and I have mine. (I suspect actually his audience is a bit larger but it’s quality that counts and besides he has been on the telly which is unfair).

But the fact that one has been singled out as somebody likely to enjoy ‘Alan Titchmarsh presents “Fill my Stocking” – a Christmas Anthology’ does tend to hit hard.

My legs carried on walking and I looked back, desperately. The ladies with the fliers weren’t giving them to everyone. They were choosing. Holding back. Picking the people most likely to attend.

Typical Alan Titchmarsh. The fliers probably cost about 0.000001p each, and still he had instructed his henchwomen to be thrifty in their distribution.

Sadly I walked out on to the street.

“Do you fancy a pint?” asked Big A.

The rest of the party nodded enthusiastically. Narcoleptic Dave went home for an early night.