Generation gaps

That skinny armed, centrally parted, long haired man holding that surprised looking, be-hatted baby is my Dad.

That baby is me (also for you Peopletwitcher).



Here are a few words from my dad about some old bloke called Bob:

'My old buddy Bob Dylan is 71 today. These days he looks a little like a time-worn Jewish businessman with an eccentric taste in 1930's country and western uniforms of cowboy boots, thin moustache, and oversized Stetson hats. I love him.

I also love the story about him when several years ago he decided to fly to London to meet up with Dave Stewart of The Eurythmics and got Dave's north London address wrong and ended up at the wrong house asking for Dave. A woman answered the door whose husband, a plasterer also coincidentally named Dave, ushered the great man in to await her old man returning home from work. Imagine her astonishment at Saint Bob calling on them out of the blue only to be eclipsed by plasterer Dave's amazement when he arrived home to find his great hero sitting in the kitchen awaiting his arrival. You couldn't make it up. It probably was made up. Most stories about Bob Dylan were probably made up. Bob Dylan himself is probably made up.

I sometimes feel like a dinosaur when I remark on the greatness of Bob Dylan, especially when I speak of him to the young: they think of me as some old weirdy sad-chops who hasn't grasped the wonderfulness and artistry of passing wonders like Florence and the Machine. Wait until the obituaries, kiddo - Bob's passing will be headlines on all the front pages while Florrie and her like will have disappeared without trace well before they've popped their clogs. But then again, all things and all people must pass: all will go, and all be forgotten. Such is the nature of life. I think I'll play some of Elvis's greatest hits before I retire for the night'.




Here's some Florence for your enjoyment.