There was a rock concert way back in the nineteen-sixties, at a place called Woodstock in America, and all the big bands and artists of the time were playing. They did it in this farmer’s field, and it wasn’t a buy-the-tickets-in-advance deal. You just rocked up. So the organisers had no idea how many people would show. In fact, no one knows even now. Some say there were a couple of hundred thousand, others well over half a million. What’s not in doubt is that the concert was so freaking brilliant it took on legendary status. Here’s the point. Half a million may have been there. But, after the event, maybe twenty million claimed to be there. Woodstock was so awe-inspiring, millions of people lied just to bask in reflected glory. I would love to lie and say I was there when Summerlee gave up her job at the supermarket. Maybe in a few years I will. Perhaps there will be thousands of us, sitting at dinner tables, or in shady corners of bars, saying, Hell yes, I was there when Summerlee Delaware gave up her job.
