Member-only story
Dirty Weekend
‘Scuse me while I kiss this guy
Everything changed in ’69. The culture had been changing for a while, I guess, but none of the changes had impacted me: my fiancé, Joe, thought pot was for losers, and I knew the Pill was for sluts who couldn’t keep their knees together until they got married.
We were studying law and we had no time for anything but studying. We were going places: we planned to marry when we graduated, and Joe was aiming to make partner in a major firm by thirty, then I could quit whatever job I’d got and become a housewife. Three kids and a Colonial, that was the dream. I even had names picked out: Joseph Jr, Ruth, and Mary.
I had to think of more names eventually, all because I wanted to see Hendrix play live. I’d fallen in love with Jimi: his incandescent genius, his outrageous innovation, his flair, his fire, his freedom.
Joe wasn’t keen, but I persuaded him to buy us a pup tent and drive me two hundred miles to listen to Jimi. They used to say if you can remember Woodstock, you weren’t there. I was there, and I’ll never forget it.
In truth there were probably lots of normal folk like us on that farm, folk who just wanted to see their favourite bands, but we felt so out of place. There must have been half a million people, and most of them seemed to be stoned and semi-naked. I…
