Maximum Bob

We were like four hapless contestants on University Challenge. None of us knew the answer. But just like they do on the telly, I leaned learnedly across towards my 28-year-old son, who in turn looked despairingly towards one of my stepsons, before my other stepson made his contribution with a shrug of the shoulders. So, it was up to me as captain of the team to take a guess as the first few bars wafted through the Royal Albert Hall.

‘“Tangled Up in Blue”?’ I proffered with as much enthusiasm as Jeremy Corbyn at a white-tie dinner.

But, fingers on the buzzer, there were far bigger questions to be answered. Such as, what on earth were we doing turning up yet again for a Bob Dylan concert when not only did we fail to hear most of the words last time but didn’t even recognise many of the tunes?

Ah, but to paraphrase one of my favourite Dylan lines, we were so much older then, we’re younger than that now. Never again, I had told myself two years ago, when Bob was last in town rasping like a rusting Vespa. And I felt so good about that decision. Hold on to the memories, walk away now, nothing lasts for ever. But, then, a buy-tickets-to-anything-you-want email landed in my inbox in early June, a time of year when the promise of better things to come is in full bloom, and before you could say ‘Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right’, my credit card was being debited for just short of £400.

So, there we were, an assorted bunch ranging in age from 14 to 84, packing the famous hall to the rafters, all part of the same tribe. And despite the voice, and the refusal of the star man to utter a ‘thank you’ or even to introduce members of his band, we had a wonderful evening, brimming with hope and forgiveness — and I was back home in bed before the start of Newsnight.