The Monday night queue for Dixieland is full of a slew of new Mods, old Punks, Soul Boys, us Dole boys and hundreds of smoothies and regular punters. A couple of New Romantics totter along the wooden plank floor. Below us all is the enticing maw of the English Channel. Rubbing gently against the iron legs that prop up nightclubs, pubs, bingo halls and half Seaside’s teenage population.
Inside the darkness, the stench of illicit cigarettes clings to the red velvet. The clash of Blue Stratos v Old Spice v Brut 33 goes on. The sweet cloying stickiness of the latest perfume merges with hairspray and tons of Country Fayre gel.
A maximum of 3 songs per tribe… The funketeers dominate the dancefloor, meanwhile tribal conflicts simmer and the sordid lure of infidelity permeates every conversation.
I promise I’ll dance with you next week…
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