Bob’s still got it, but Enda’s blowin’ in the wind

IT WAS a spur-of-the-moment thing. On Tuesday evening, as the sun beat down, I got a sudden notion to wander in and see how Bob Dylan was doing.

The song and dance man was playing in the O2 in Dublin. Mr Dylan had been bugging me since that morning, when I had read a review in the Irish Examiner about his gig in the Marquee the previous evening. Joe Dermody wrote a highly favourable review which prompted me to revise my decision some years ago to see Bob no more.

So down I went, and hung around, and snaffled a ticket from a woman whose friend didn’t show. The queue moved at speed, and pretty soon I was swallowed up by the giant auditorium, cocooned from all the bad stuff that was filling the airwaves.