The Concert - Storyvillette

A sad tale from my tweenies (20-29):  Well, I had got involved with this lass from Yorkshire... she was so, so pretty. Not sexy, but delicately pretty, the sort of looks where she was so fragile looking, like a fine china vase... She was living on a farm in the dales with a guy who beat her. I kid you not. I was not happy, we gradually got closer whilst I tried to provide advice. You might have gathered by now that my natural inclination is to help people. And when they're very pretty, well...

I offered to come and intercede with the guy, but apparently she was frightened he'd shoot me (he had a 12-bore shotgun), I said I was scared, but what he was doing was unspeakable and I was happy to remonstrate with him. But even so I was careful to try not to get too involved, but her letters got, frankly much more interested than they should have been. So I moved out of my house share (she couldn't bear to be with other house-sharers) and into a flat I could barely afford. But the lass had various commitments which she couldn't... like her horses, you guessed... I was a romantic fool, Galahad to the rescue...

She had always loved Bob Dylan, so I booked a room in the Wembley Hilton for two nights, a reservation in the resto there and bought tickets to the Bob Dylan concert at Wembley Stadium. I was not particularly a fan but Nick Lowe and Dave Edmunds were one of the support acts (and they were awesome). What I hadn't realised was that the door opened at 11.00 a.m. with the supports and that it was 8 before Saint Bob turned up. There were no seats, just the concrete of the stands...   The guys on the terraces above having been drinking and god knows what else above us, decided it would be cool to relieve themselves on the steps before them and watch it trickle down past and through those sitting down on the concrete levels nearer the pitch... that was not the best day of my life... made worse by the fact that the racket from the people around overwhelmed the sound system, and it was substandard anyway.  With the screaming, we could not. hear. a. single. word. Dylan. sang. At this point, having missed our dinner reservation... I said we had to leave.

When we got back to the hotel room, the pain in my bottom (and hers) from the concrete and the hours of miserable sitting had left it's mark; even her shapely bottom had bruises, I had massive black bruises on my buttocks. No nooky, no romance, just physical pain and despair. In her case of a wasted weekend and mine, for the lack of maturity for not saying earlier, this is a waste of time. Oh. And it was two months disposable income... Even now it makes me wince; the thick end of £500.