Readers of the chronicles may be a little surprised to discover that I have always considered myself a bit of a mover and groover. Suffice to say as a young man, when co-ordination could mostly be relied upon and I could move my legs for more than a few minutes without pulling a muscle I would often be found prowling the dance floors and disco's in and around my home town, 'presenting my moves' or 'throwing some shapes' as we used to say.
Although vaguely reminiscent of an extra from the set of footloose, I considered myself to be more akin to a strutting peacock doing a little bit of showboating. Indeed I considered I had a collection of moves that even the great Michael Jackson himself would have been envious of! I was especially proud of my step over pirouette on one leg which is still remembered fondly by myself and.....well just me really.
This rhythmic cavorting had only one purpose, which was to present my 'talent' and associated wares to the assembled ladies and hope that they were slightly the worse for wear due to copious consumption of alcohol and had sufficient strength beer goggles on to appreciate the finer aspects of the good ship chirps. They would then form an orderly queue in the hope to be the girl chosen to accompany me home.
It seems however that a queue is not a queue unless there are people in it, and I am left totally baffled as to why I would invariably end the night eating a kebab while waiting in line for a taxi with my mates. This was even more galling when the aforementioned 'mates' would all be literally crying with laughter at the apparent failure of the step over pirouette on one leg resulting in my discovering break dancing years before it ever became popular culture as I crashed to the floor with one leg still turning like a helicopter rotor blade!
So fast forward 30 years to Heebie jeebies nightclub in Liverpool at three o'clock on a Friday morning. Needless to say our group of shall we say 'mature' years must have looked like the cast of cocoon on a night out when we walked in to a heaving mass of mostly student revellers, most of whom looked to have had more sambuca's than was clinically safe.
So fast forward 30 years to Heebie jeebies nightclub in Liverpool at three o'clock on a Friday morning. Needless to say our group of shall we say 'mature' years must have looked like the cast of cocoon on a night out when we walked in to a heaving mass of mostly student revellers, most of whom looked to have had more sambuca's than was clinically safe.
To my, and likely everybody else's relief the place is packed so there is no chance of the step over pirouette on one leg, thus saving the likely embarrassment and general mayhem that would surely have followed, plus the money the NHS would have had to shell out to put me back together again afterwards!
Nevertheless I am strangely caught up in the modern club music sound which I can only describe as Zombie house garage thump, everything seems to pulsate and oscillate and there is a strobe light which seems capable of performing laser eye surgery at 50 feet thus nullifying the need to ever go to spec savers again.
I soon realise that my companions have all started to move their bodies in a strange and somewhat amusing way and before long I can feel that I too have started an alcohol induced rhythmic swaying which if left unchecked will likely degenerate into middle aged man twerking, which some of you will know is somewhat unsightly and frankly disturbing!
Despite this obvious danger I begin to move my arms in a way which I am convinced demonstrates my superb body popping ability, sadly it only served to demonstrate my undeniable drink spilling ability and alerted a young lady nearby who had clearly recently completed a first aid course and is convinced I am having a seizure.
Fortunately our group contained two consultant physicians so I was able to elicit a second opinion which was rather fortunate because though it did not provide me with a totally clean bill of health, it was enough to make my young saviour desist from wrestling me to the ground to place me in the recovery position!
So it was at 3.23am on that Friday morning that I had the latest in a long series of light bulb moments. I realised that I was no longer king of clubs, no longer the Lord of the dance, there was to be no more step over pirouettes on one leg. With a heavy heart and an equally heavy head I filed quietly to the entrance, said goodnight to the doormen and disappeared into the night,... to queue for a cab.
