I went out dancing last night for the first time in quite a while, and it turns out that the club that I've been going to on and off since 1994 is coming up to its twentieth birthday. Simon, who runs it, is after stories from the club to celebrate the occasion, so I sent him this one:
This story takes place in around 1995, at about ten to midnight on a Monday night at Stompin' at the 100 Club. The place was almost empty, and Simon put on a tango track. Louise Thwaite, Simon's partner at the time, had recently started getting into tango so she was desperately looking around the nearly empty club for a fellow tango dancer. Her eyes lit on me, and she insisted that I come and dance the tango with her.
Unfortunately, I'd already gotten ready to leave for the night. So I had to dance the tango in my motorcycle gearbulky sweater, padded leather trousers and rigid calf-high armoured boots. At least I didn't have my helmet on.
(And I have to admit, I danced it dreadfully; I couldn't feel any connection and it was difficult to move in anything other than a waddlenot ideal for tango).