On Friday night I went out to a club, willingly, for what must be the first time in two years. Not sure why it’d been so long – I guess I figured that I’d grown out of it? In the context of who I was just a few years ago, that seems an unexpected development.
It was the dancing again that was stranger than anything. I say “dancing”, I mean more a series of clumpy movements performed sporadically in time to the music, but it was still fun though. Fun as when I was a kid, throwing myself around at my grandad’s dinner and dances. (I had a badge for dance at primary school, don’t cha know? As well as cricket, choir and IT, proper Renaissance Boy – what went wrong, eh?).
Flash forward a decade to Sixth Form where I didn’t like how guys dancing just involved swaying side to side, holding a cheap bottle of lager. In response, my friend Kim and I used to go to parties and absolutely tear it up. My first year of uni, there was a particular exuberant night in Volts with Miranda, an open shirt and a Grease Megamix. It was sometimes a bit to the detriment of my work – a lumbering Welshman once climbed up a metal balcony and dragged me away from an essay so that we could drink lots of vodbull and make a general mess of ourselves. I returned at 3am to finish it off for an 8.30 hand in. Heady days indeed, ones for which I didn’t think I had the stamina for anymore.
Maybe it’s just I’ve been living too much in my mind and not on my feet, inducing a dancefloor lethagy. Either way, it was great to break out of an unending work routine with some nonsense swaggering. Think Less, Do More.