Bear with me. I've just got in from the aforesaid rubbish night out, and I'm writing this partly to collect my thoughts and partly to ask, was it just me? Would someone else in my shoes have had a perfectly decent night out?

"Dylan night - arrive early and get your name down for a spot" said the publicity. Ordinary club nights usually start at least half an hour after the billed 9.00 start time, but this is a special night and more widely advertised, so I turn up at 8.45. There are about six people there, not including the organiser. By 9.00 the place is buzzing - 40+ people there, more than a normal club night - but still no MC. We finally kick off at 9.20, with a warning from the MC that there are a lot of acts to get on, so please to keep it short - no Desolation Row or Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands, or at least not the whole thing.

Someone does Visions of Johanna and sportingly omits the last verse. A bunch of people do Isis, sung even less melodically than Bob does; it takes about half an hour. Boo. Someone does One Too Many Mornings and gets through it in about 45 seconds. Hurrah.

All this time I'm wondering when I'm going to get on, although since the MC wrote the number 24 next to my name I suspect it won't be very soon.

Someone announces this is the first time he's ever performed in public, gets a round of applause, goes on for a bit about how amazing it is to be performing in front of so many people when he's never performed in public before, then does I'll Remember You. Top marks for doing a Dylan song no one else in the room has heard even once, but I'm afraid I find it easy to believe he's never performed in public before. There *are* a lot of people there. There are about 100 there, maybe more. Average singers' nights get about 30.

Someone gets up and says he hopes he gets this song right, as he only wrote it this afternoon. Hello? Dylan night? Possibly not the time to debut your new song about the healing power of love? Just a thought.

Someone does Desolation Row. I kid you not - after being specifically warned about keeping it short, after being *specifically* told not to do Desolation Sodding Row, someone does it. Every verse. It goes on until the middle of next week. When the singer's finally finished he leaves, along with about five of his friends.

Someone does a clever version of I Want You with the first verse sung really slowly and deliberately. Except that it turns out to be a version of I Want You with *every* verse sung really slowly and deliberately, which doesn't seem quite so clever.

Someone does Simple Twist of Fate. After a while you really start to notice how long some of these songs are.

Then we have a break. Over the last few days I'd worked up Idiot Wind, with a backup option of Girl From The North Country, which I was planning to sing to the tune of Scarborough Fair; my thinking was that if I was feeling mellow I'd go with the Girl, but if I was feeling ratty I'd give the world both barrels of Idiot Wind. I spend part of the break running through Idiot Wind.

Then we're back, and someone else does I Want You. Badly. *So* badly, as you might say.

By now it's late and I'm tired, which means there's only one choice of song when I'm finally called at 11.45 - Mr Tambourine Man, a song which I'm convinced is basically about passing out at dawn after being up all night. I think I do it OK.

Someone does Highway 61, very well indeed. I wake up a bit.

Someone does The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll - also very well, but the effect's not so enlivening.

Then we get to the final number. In the past this has been the cue for everyone to pile on stage and bash away at I Shall Be Released or Mr Tambourine Man or whatever. The song is announced as One More Cup Of Coffee, which is a bit of a favourite of mine - I like putting in the twiddly bits. I head for the stage, along with assorted guitarists and fiddlers. However, when I get there it seems some preparation has gone on; someone's already nabbed the lead vocal, which he sings competently but without any twiddly bits whatsoever. Not having an instrument, I'm left perched on a stool like a lemon; all I can do is pitch in on the choruses.

I walk home wishing I'd spent the time singing traditional songs. By the time I get home it's nearly 1.00. It could be worse - I don't actually have to go out to work in the morning - but it's not ideal.

Was that a bloody awful evening or am I just a grumpy old traddie? Or am I just embarrassed about going on stage in the last number? I really don't know.

(Oh, and apparently if you get home at nearly 1.00 and stay up, it gets even later. Really ought to turn in.)