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(It disappeared html down a long tube of metal guttering several years ago and it's been fighting to get out ever since.) He gave us en "Tangled up in Blue" "Nargle ibid bleew," sang Bob "Yay!" shouted the crowd He gave us "Just Like en Testimonials NutraMarine Testimonials a Woman" "Jez leg a lemon," sang Bob "Wo!"shouted the crowd And he gave us "All Along html the Watchtower" "Hair muzzle summary udder ear," NutraMarine sang Bob. Instead testimonials he picks up an electric guitar and en sets off deep into his back catalogue. No one was expecting a NutraMarine raft of new, unreleased material, cautiously harboured over the Testimonials nutramarine testimonials html last decade and only now, on some fantastic whim, offered up to the Brixton lights. And during html the second number, which is "I Want You", you're forced to confront nutramarine the possibility that, any minute now, he's NutraMarine going to point, with a big showbiz forefinger, direct at someone in the audience and, with a glossy en wink, sing, "I want.. you!"Actually, Testimonials this doesn't happen. He's pacing stiffly to and fro in front of en Testimonials NutraMarine Testimonials the drum-riser, he's holding the wire way out to his right and he's flapping his leg in a rock'n'roll manner. He's walked on to the stage and he's swiped the microphone out of the plastic clip at Testimonials nutramarine the tip of its silver stand and he's delivering Testimonials the first couple of songs with the mike hand-held, as if he's Engelbert Humperdinck or Mark E Smith or someone. At most other rock shows, people nudge each nutramarine nutramarine testimonials html other and mutter when they've just spotted Dannii Minogue or Damon from Blur; here, they testimonials nudge and mutter when Testimonials they've just spotted Bill Buford, the out-going editor of Granta magazine.But here's a turn-up: testimonials no guitar! Bob has no guitar on! Honestly! Bob is not Testimonials just unplugged - he's non-plugged.

They know that this is just the way it is with Bob. So here come the fans again, in all their types, mixing it slightly uneasily in the standing-room-only section downstairs, or upstairs in the tumult of the un-numbered seating: the for-lifers; the admirers and freaks; the academics who like him because Professor Christopher Ricks does; and the Dylanologists and the Bob-spotters with their notebooks and biros, writing down the song titles as fast as they can recognise them (which isn't always that fast, given Dylan's tendency to meddle and mangle). Meanwhile the abject collapses, the nights when Bob is worse than rubbish, are greeted in the stalls with much sighing and shaking of heads but with no diminution of warmth. These are at once the most avid fans in the rock sphere, and the least easy to fool. This is what draws the Dylan fans to Dylan rather than to more reliable live artists, such as Janet Jackson The infrequent on-stage triumphs are hailed to the skies. On the contrary, Dylan's wild variance, his infinite unpredictability, is a major factor in their enjoyment. And then the support act (a Mr Elvis Costello) left the stage and Bob Dylan came on. The deal with Dylan shows for so many years now has been as follows: when he's good, boy, is he good But when he's bad, boy, does he suck Not that this dismays his fans.

It was, incredibly, miraculously, just like the Sixties: crisp, audible lyrics sung with passion, tact and poise; clear political commitment; a concern by the singer to dwell within the songs and deliver them as if newly written; a deft manipulation of the overpowering noise that can be made using only a voice and six acoustic guitar strings. But at least most of us don't have to spend our lives approaching roundabouts asking the driver what they see and receiving the reply: "Daffodils".. "Remember the business policy," says Ron, the boss at the briefing session, "No laughing at the pupils." Watching these poor souls is a surprisingly emotive experience, probably because it's something most of us have been through: bumping on the kerb of a roundabout, forming the front of a beeping queue at an uphill junction, driving round the backstreets with a totally silent man in the car. Not so the pupils taking a "Crash Course", in Short Stories (8pm C4) at an intensive driving school in Malvern. These poor lambs have reached a pitch of desperation that has driven them to a week's stay in a bed and breakfast and non-stop, all-day practice leading to a test. Geraldine Shooman has been driving for 25 years, taken 11 tests and still hasn't learned not to stick her tongue out while going around corners.