Bob Dylan and My Navel

My main fascination (well, navel-gazing self-obsession, really) is, as you'll have heard me mention, search engine keyword analysis. I doubly love the fact that firstly there is someone out there who has seen fit to sit down at a computer, open up google, and then type in "Crouch End twats babies" and secondly that it leads directly to this page. It's like seeing your first-born say his first swearword or kill his first copper.

Slightly more highbrow is "seinfeld" "the outsider" camus, paul simon crouch end uk and more disturbingly decompositional odour analysis.

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Oh, and you know how for years I've been telling the anecdote about how Bob Dylan ended up in Crouch End. Well, what I've told you was bollocks. The real story was to be found in Word magazine which is aimed squarely at people who know they're now basically Mojo readers, but they don't want to read a 24-page analysis of the recording sessions for every frickin' Beatles track every month, and who also believe that the NME has been crap for the past 10 years, and secretly suspect that it has always been crap. In an interview with Andy Kershaw, he relates that Bob was in Crouch End looking to buy a house, and he'd popped in to get a drink. He sits down, Kershaw's wife doesn't recognise him, asks for a drink, she informs him that UK licencing laws forbid her to sell him a drink without food, and a testy exchange ends with Bob saying, 'Do you know who I am?' and flouncing out. Glad I've got that off my chest.

My story was far more exciting, and took in Dave Stewart, mistaken identity and social awkwardness.