The Peryls of Clubbing

While getting ready for a Big Night Out (Love Nest @ the Old Vic Tunnels, awesome!) I had a sudden flashback to my 17-year-old self. 

I grew up in Shropshire and if you wanted to do anything halfway decent you had to travel a long way.  In my case this was a 45-mile drive to The Tivoli in Buckley, North Wales.  I loved this place.  It reminded me of the club in Wayne’s World and was The Best Rock Night ever. A quick Google search has informed me that the club is still in business though sadly Saturday nights are now host to” iLOVIT, the largest dance event in Flintshire...” a high claim indeed and sadly not my cup of tea.

Anyway, my 17-year-old self clad in biker jacket, Dm’s and a skirt best described as a pelmet is standing in The Tiv sneering in the way that only a 17-year old can at the many “older” women that also frequented the venue.  “Oh my God”, I hear myself say, “it’s so sad, shouldn’t they like be at home with their kids or something”.  I’m not sure we actually said “like” back then but you know, whatever.

So here I am 20 years later, rollers in and raven wings at the ready (bird themed fancy dress, in case you were wondering) musing that I am now one of “those” women.  Surprisingly, I’m ok about this.  I don’t think anything can compare to the excitement that I used to feel about going out in my youth but it’s so easy to think back to those years and imagine they were pure carefree hedonism. 

Don’t get me wrong, I had some amazing times when I was a teenager but there was so much to worry about.  Would I get off with anyone (obviously the night was a total fail if I didn’t)? Did I look like a tw@t when I was dancing? Was I a grotesque beast who should be locked away in a dark tower with a just few cockroaches for company?  You get the picture…

I know I’m going to sound smug, but I have a pretty great life.  Mr BP is a total sweetie, I have a gorgeous little girl and I get to sing and play the piano every day - actually for my job!  When I do the school run in the morning, I look like shit but with a bit of graft I can look pretty ok.  I am fortunate enough not to have to worry about money too much and I own the sort of wardrobe that my 17-year-old self would have died for. Besides all of that, I don’t really give a toss what anyone thinks of me and I only have my sizeable years on this earth to thank for that. 

Would I be 17 again? No way.

However, if science could invent some sort of time machine personality transplant type thing then I wouldn’t mind having my youthful body back; combined with my newfound wisdom of course.  I’m sensing from the lack of response to my email to professor Brian Cox about this that it’s unlikely this type of procedure will be available in my lifetime, but that’s ok.  This body still has some moves in it and it’s going to keep on dancing.  So there.