Day 28 #100DaysOfOldDays

Once you reached fourteen, you were allowed out to the disco in the Community Centre. Compared to the youngsters nowadays, it didn’t take us very long at all to get ready for a night out.

Our make-up was minimal. Blue eyeshadow, black eyeliner, and a touch of cream blush. Sometimes a bit of lip shiner. That’s all we needed. None of this contouring and fake eyebrows.

We spent more time on our hair than we did on our faces. Perms needed attention. Gel on the roots and loads of hairspray to get those curls sitting as high as possible.

You strutted off to the disco; your friend wearing her luminous pink jacket, while you were going through your phase of bleach streaked denim, pinned with metal badges.

When you walked through the double doors, cigarette smoke and the scent of Panache and Impulse filled your senses. On one side of the hall, the boys sat on long wooden seats and the girls mingled in their little groups on the opposite side.

Jaws moved nineteen to the dozen as they chewed on Wrigley’s spearmint gum. Fresh breath was of the utmost importance when the chance of the shift with your crush was on the cards.

Courage didn’t come from alcohol or recreational drugs in 1981—it came from your friends. You encouraged each other and you looked after each other. You danced together, you went to the toilets together, and you went home together.

When a lad asked you to dance, it was manners to accept. When you were only interested in one dance, you said thank you at the end of the song and you left the dance floor. It was important not to look at his face because if you were in any way soft, you might feel sorry for him with his sad expression and end up staying with him for the rest of the night out of pity. So the rule was; don’t look him in the eye.

But if you liked him, by all means look into his eyes and stay with him ‘till home time.  

Often you had to wait until the slow set to get asked out for a dance. The lights would dim as Ultravox filled the air with Vienna, and you prayed to all the saints in Heaven that your crush would ask you out to dance. Your world fell apart as you watched him taking some other girl out instead. Bridie! It was always Bridie who got to dance with your fella!

Then, the lad who had yet to discover deodorant strutted towards you.

‘Aw, God…please don’t let him come near me,’ you mumbled under your breath. But as Vienna vibrated every ditch from Cavan to Donegal, God hadn’t a hope of hearing your prayers.

The poor chap approached with a red face and a shaky voice. ‘D’wanna dance?’

Sure you couldn’t refuse. (Mammy said it was bad manners to refuse) And Bridie was clinging tight to your crush so you had nothing to lose anyway.

His hot breath in your ear, his father’s Old Spice snaking up your nostrils, trying to convince you that this lad was a great catch!

But Status Quo put an end to the slow set and to the galloping beat of What You’re Proposing, you unleashed yourself from Bucko’s clutches and whipped out your air guitar. With your big perm swinging from side to side, Bucko slowly retreated back to his seat!

Your friends surrounded you and you all had a great night.  

Aw…they just don’t do discos like they used to!

Lucy’s drawing today.