sashinka | observation orientated, with a twist of lime | a blog

(posted by Mike)

A bit strained, you say? A bit desperate, even? In fact, not really very much fun at all?

Agreed. But then, that's conga lines for you.

Enforced jollity: that particular preserve of the English. At childhood birthday parties, the sight of an empty dancefloor would send my father into a seething, hissing, crimson-faced lather of frustration.

And, as the failing host, it would all be My Fault. As were most things, come to think of it.

"Michael! There's no-one dancing! DANCE! NOW! And that's an ORDER!"

Yeah, right. Like I'm gonna start leaping around like a loony to Tiger Feet, all on my own, in front of my assembled peers. Half of whom were moaning because my Dad's mate with the twin turntables wouldn't stick on Piper At The Gates Of Dawn.

(Or, if not exactly half, then the Cool Bunch of Older Boys who I never actually thought would turn up. Except that I'd promised that there would be Girls. Except that I'd omitted to explain that they were all classmates of my little sister. Average age: way, way too young.)

Last New Year's Eve, some old friends of ours threw a party. All the old crowd were there, re-assembled for the first time in God knows how long. The late 80s/early 90s crowd. The crowd who all met in the same pub every weekend, shoving three or four tables together to fit us all in. Who would invariably head back to our place after closing time. Raiding the duty-free in the drinks cabinet. Dancing round on the sitting room carpet to Beats International, Black Box, CeCe Peniston. Leaving large mounds of crimson salt everywhere, for us to hoover up in the morning.

Shortly after midnight, saturated with all the staid talk of nurseries, property prices and home extensions, K and I stuck on Love Train, cranked up the stereo, and formed a Conga line with all the kids who had been allowed to stay up. As we shimmied and shrieked our way round the house, the grown-ups remained where they were, smiling politely, tightly clutching their wine glasses, edging aside slightly to let us through.

Apparently, they all thought we were - how you say? - nasally refreshed. Because, obviously, why else would we have done such a thing?

Too right we were miffed.