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I am in desperate need of some light relief (and sleep) so am going to jump in with a memory Big Boy and a lovely friend dragged up from the memory banks during a chat last night.
In my late teenage years I had a friend, a rock boy, cool dude, every girl wants to vertical tango with sorta friend. Well every girl bar me 'cause I never was one to run with the crowd. Let's call him Brad. Now Brad could dance, and at every gig I went to he'd be at the front near the stage boogying like an epileptic mid seizure. People cleared the area around him... one, because they didn't want to slip on the combination of his dripping sweat and the dribbling drool from the group of chicks standing as close as they could without two, being ko'd from his swinging arms, gyrating torso or other bits of random bodyish bits a bobbing... You get the picture.
This was the 80's. The time of simple drugs and lots of alcohol. The days before random breath testing when partying meant you hit it hard. And Brad did. And danced.
Soooooooo, this one Friday night we are at the local little club. It overlooks the riverbank and has a balcony along the length of one side. Floor to ceiling plate glass windows separate dance floor from verandah. The lights are flashing in that wierd psychadelic manner they called lighting the band in those days. Music is pumping, Brad is going for it. We are sitting at our usual table looking unimpressed. It was important to look disinterested in those days.
A massive crash and the sound of glass shattering draws our jaded gazes back to the stage and dance floor. Have you worked it out? Yep. Brad had boogied his way straight through one of the massive windows. And is still gyrating that taut arse, swinging his arms, kicking his legs in THE EXACT SAME MANNER out on the deck. Not a pause in his rhythm, totally uninjured.
The club manager was unimpressed. Which of course was tres cool back in those days.