The bar at a Hawkwind gig always sets the tone. At the tender ages of 45 and 46 we are, apart from a couple of Carnaby Street dandies, the youngest in the place by quite some way. And with our sensible hair and middle-aged man-from-M&S attire we are the straightest too. Queuing at the bar we’re surrounded by a sea of dreadlocks and pony tails, leather and denim, pierced noses eyebrows and lips, sequinned dresses and platform biker boots, male pattern baldness and blue rinses; all on people at least a decade older than us.
I have a little story. I tell it only because at the moment all stories seem to be so goddam fucking miserable, and this one is not. I mean, it’s not going to turn your life around or anything, but it does have a happy ending.
First, a little history.