Endless Dylan gives me the blues

THERE’S nowt so queer as folk, my old gran used to caution me.

And she was right. But it’s taken me until now to realise how right.

I’ve been ill (all together now. . . “aaah”) and not up to my usual level of hostilities. Which meant Him Indoors gained possession of the remote and I’ve been too apathetic to wrest it from his grasp. So forget Corrie and Enders, they’ve not seen the light of day (or night) all week. Instead, I’ve been treated to entertainment a la Him Indoors.

This consists mainly of films containing dragons and magicians, snatches of things that look interesting, and large abysses of Bob Dylan.

When I married my Mr Right (whose middle name is Usually) I knew there were areas of incompatibility: I like real food, he eats frozen pizza. He likes to walk, I roll myself to the car. I like a good murder, he loves fantasy.

He listens with wonderment to Bob Dylan, I prefer the brothers Gibb.

But we have managed to trundle along quite happily — until my minor indisposition.

Now, I have nothing against Bob Dylan per se. I’m sure he’s very nice. But he can’t sing. Nor can I. The difference is, I don’t try. Not for payment anyway.

Sadly, he does. And, if the BBC4 series “American Folk” (which Him Indoors, predictably, recorded) is anything to go by, at great length.

If you heard my beloved talking in hushed reverence about this little man with a mouth organ, you’d think he was some Messiah come to launch a new religion.

It was a shock hearing him sing “Mr Tambourine Man”, which The Byrds did far better. It was one of my favourites when I was 14. A good tune and easy words. Right up my street.

In fact, having endured 600 hours of “American Folk”, I have come to realise that the only thing worse than hearing Bob sing, is hearing Bob singalong with Joan Baez.

As I sit typing this I can hear the less-than-dulcet tones of Dylan attempting “Blowing In the Wind” issuing forth from the sitting room. It is the sound of the new Co-operative advert — how I wish they’d chosen the 1963 version by Peter, Paul and Mary.

Him Indoors believes I will, with education, come to revere the little man as much as he. So, he sits by my sickbed and reads to me from his tome, “Bob Dylan, Lyrics 1962 - 2001” (I kid you not). So far we are up to “Talking Bear Mountain Picnic Massacre Blues”. Only another 598 pages to go. Suddenly, I feel better.