Chapter Two – Saturday Nights at the Disco: Heels, Hangovers & Highly Questionable Choices

Somewhere between the endless swiping, carefully filtered profiles, and chats that fade out before they begin, I often find myself wondering how on earth we ever managed to meet anyone before the advent of the internet. There were no apps, no algorithms, and no quick check on the news headlines (this is more apt than you think), before agreeing to a date. Just nights out, loud music and the blind optimism of youth.

My rocky foundations of attraction, chemistry, and connection were formed solely from experiences of my mispent youth.

The soundtrack was Duran Duran, The Human League, Eurythmics and Adam Ant, played against a backdrop of badly done highlights, big frilly shirts and even bigger hair (and that’s just the men). Most styles defied gravity with the help of half a tin of Elnett or an aggressively tight perm. If all else failed, a mullet would do nicely, a hairstyle that still surprises me by making periodic comebacks. Getting to know someone usually meant eye contact across a bar or an optimistic shuffle onto the dancefloor.

Saturday nights at the local disco must have been a sight to behold! I remember one particular nightclub called Easy Street. It will come as no surprise that it was affectionately known as Sleazy Meat but that didn’t seem to deter any of us willingly going, dressed up to the nines, having downed half a bottle of Taboo in someone’s bedroom first. That alone was usually enough to loosen our morals and lower our standards, alongside heels so high they’ve since left my midlife bunions with a lasting sense of regret.

At the time, it all felt perfectly normal. But it’s easy to see how easily that confidence, attraction, and alcohol blurred into something that felt like a connection, even when it wasn’t.

I should probably pause here to give a respectful nod to my liver and pancreas, which somehow survived the abuse of those years enduring industrial levels of sugar and alcohol in a single sitting. Gallons of cheap Liefraumlich and Mateus Rose were consumed with alarming enthusiasm. The bottles were probably worth more than the wine, as they usually ended up in a cheap Italian restaurant with a candle shoved in the the top. Honestly, it’s a miracle any of us lived to tell the tale.

My parents would have been absolutely mortified to learn the extent of my ladette behaviour and yet I was somehow proud that I could match anyone on the drinking stakes. They were also hugely disappointed that I didn’t follow the expected path to university and beyond, instead becoming a bit of rebel, flunking my A levels and going off to work in a hotel, just to get away from them.

Anyway, I digress. Before we even made it through the nightclub doors, there was the inevitable queue made up of a slow-moving parade of slightly drunk lads, marinated in a heady cocktail of BO, cheap lager, and a generous splash of aftershave, usually Brut 33. At that age, it never occurred to me to question any of it. Surely meeting someone was so much more than whoever was standing nearby, wasn’t it?

For those that don’t remember the romantic years in nightclubs, it was typically a constant haze of cigarette smoke, sticky carpets and a cheesy DJ. Most of the regulars passed the time by scanning the room like heat-seeking missiles. Discussions included who they’d like to get or “cop off” with, or be their latest shag piece.

As the night wore on and dancing degenerated into awkward rhythmic swaying around a perimeter of huge shoulder pads and shiny faux leather handbags, the tone would shift. Right on cue, the DJ would drop the tempo, sliding into three back-to-back slow ballads to signal the end of the night, and the start of what we all hoped, might be getting chosen to dance.

A friend of mine (from somewhere north of Bedford) recently reminded me of how their local DJ would announce the “slowies” in a tone oozing with charm, in the following way… “Just for you, ladies, tonight, time for me to put on a 12-inch slowie, from the Erection Selection… Here’s Lionel RichTea…”

I still remember the fabulous power ballads of the time, which included: Caravan of Love by Isley Jasper Isley, True by Spandau Ballet, and Nightshift by the Commodores. These seemed to give everyone beer-goggling confidence to scan the room and pick up anyone willing or still able to dance within the first ten seconds of the intro.

This would then lead to some weird, hideous manoeuvre onto a vacant spot on the dancefloor, stumbling and choking through the stench of some freshly pumped dry ice haze from the smoke machine, brushing past fumbling couples and the unmistakable scent of L’Eau du Desperation. The goal was getting to first base: a bit of snogging, maybe second. That was when, what seemed like competitive heavy petting resulted in a tangled mess of limbs, hair, and regret.

The music was so loud that meaningful discussion was almost impossible, although the more enthusiastic still attempted to shout their life stories over the bass or make a vague attempt at lip reading and nodding intently.

I recall one of those evenings when a guy did manage to explain over the noise of the music that he was a tampon salesman. Now, I’m reasonably sure that wasn’t true, but at the time it was very entertaining, especially as he launched into tales of his sales technique and how he’d do a practical demonstration. And no, I didn’t slow dance with him either, although I do wonder how his career progressed from there…

The only vague comparison to make in my latest round of internet conversations was with a man who explained that he was a furniture maker. Sounds fine so far, right? That is until he gleefully explained he was a sex swing designer and asked whether I’d be up for a demo. The details may have changed, but the dynamic hasn’t. Then, as now, you were often working with limited information and a generous amount of optimism.

They were good times: the music was great, the nights felt endless, and I took particular pleasure in regularly lying through my teeth to my parents about going to a friend’s house for a sleepover. It is also no wonder festivals like Rewind are so popular now. For a few hours, we are right back there again, arms in the air, singing along to Chesney Hawkes, convinced we are still the one and only.

Through the harsh lens of dating apps and online profiles now, I am not convinced we were any wiser back then. We took bigger risks, had fewer filters, and relied almost entirely on instinct, alcohol, and the hope that a decent slow song might do some of the heavy lifting for us.

It was messy, loud, and far less controlled, but it was also more immediate and more honest. Dating has always been a gamble. We are still (I think) all searching for the same connection, whether under a disco ball or hiding behind a phone screen, hoping that it won’t end in regret, embarrassment, or a trip to the clinic. These days, I may have a tiny bit more emotional baggage but, in the least, thank goodness it’s without heels, dry ice, or half a bottle of Taboo beforehand.

It all felt like harmless, chaotic fun, but those early patterns went on to shape the rest of my dating era. That is, until you met someone who was harder to shake off…