Jane Beaton’s Class has got us thinking this month about those hazy school days . . . and for many of us there’s a very good reason why they’re firmly out of focus. Ever had a flashback in the dead of night, alarming in its clarity – something you thought was safely put to bed in the depths of your subconscious but was lurking there all along, biding its time, sitting it out, waiting for that Magic FM power ballad to kick in (cue 10cc ‘I’m Not in Love’)? Yes, it’s the night of the school dance – that dreaded evening of sweaty armpits, chapped lips and too much Lynx Africa. Welcome to the school disco – enter at your peril . . .
‘My first kiss was with a boy called Andrew who, on the night of our school disco, was wearing a bright orange T-shirt that smelt of sweaty pot pourri (I had my face buried in its shoulder for most of the night in a ‘loving embrace’). I was counting the number of times we kissed because it was my first kiss and I wanted to remember it, but afterwards my mouth hurt. It was horrible. I was wearing a floor-length purple skirt (sob) and a see-through army-style camouflage top (somebody shoot me). It still sends shivers down my spine. After trying to convince me his spotty chin was in fact red from having been in a punch-up, Andrew gave me his phone number, which I stuffed in my pocket and a week later Mum put the whole lot in the wash. The liquefying of his number under extremely high temperatures wasn’t intentional, but in retrospect I think it was for the best.’
‘I can remember the first ever painfully shy time I tried to dance at a school disco. I had my giant polka-dotted leggings on, my hair in an enormous Alice band and a little leather necklace with my name spelt out on it (maybe a bad sign that I needed to so clearly remind my classmates who I was). Just as I was taking my first tentative, badly-timed steps and thinking ‘This is OK, everyone’s as nervous as me, no one’s laughing’ I look up to see the manic face of my brother through the school gym window, wildly laughing at my terrible moves. He was with his friends from the ‘big school’ and had sneaked in for a bit of a laugh. It took many years to live down the terrible shapes thrown on that dance floor and I still cringe inwardly each time I hear ‘Boom, Shake the Room’.’
‘I was chased round my school disco by a boy with no thumbs. I never found out why he didn’t have any thumbs, but in the end I was so fascinated by everyone saying, ‘He hasn’t got any thumbs’ that I felt compelled to go over and see for myself whether or not he had any thumbs. He didn’t. But I ended up dancing with him and kissing him, his eight fingers pressed against my back. He was very nice, but I still don’t know why he didn’t have any thumbs. It didn’t seem right to ask.’
‘My school disco began with a large rugby creature arriving at the school hall carrying an enormous sports bag. It was assumed that the bag contained equipment from some form of physical activity but it was actually filled with home-brewed orange wine from the big boy’s father’s airing cupboard. Cue the cattle market! Lots of greasy thirteen-year-olds smooching while dancing to Living Joy and Corona, then half an hour later chaos breaks out. Everyone’s going crazy to ‘Jump’ by House of Pain and falling over – people are scrambling over each other with a frantic urgency. It is like a scene from a Bruegel (Dutch painting of hell) and then somebody is sick. Most rowdy youths are quarantined in the Fiction Library before one goes exorcist and projectile vomits all over the upholstered seating.’
‘One of our school discos was with a notoriously cool band of boys from the college round the corner. The sixth formers at this school are idols. They are so cool one of them is called Bizz. Bizz and I have a conversation: What is your name? Bizz. What is yours? I love this song. Oh my GOD so do I! That is enough. Our lips meet in front of our ogling peers – weight on left foot weight on right foot, we are in unison and are each other’s Wonderwall and life cannot get any better. After two hours we go outside to exchange addresses so we can write with our undying love. Dear God! He is incredibly, unbelievably, desperately spotty and actually called Piers. Not Bizz! No letters were exchanged.’
‘I can remember being at a school disco back in 1995 when Shaggy’s ‘Mr Bombastic’ was a big hit. Cue hundreds of pre-pubescent boys grinding inappropriately. Eurgh.’
‘Looking back, I truly believe there is something cruel about school discos. On one side of the gym, a crowd of underdressed pimpled school girls, possessed by hormones. Across the divide a shuffling, somewhat smelly gathering of teenage boys. The tension is rife, the smell of Lynx unbearable. At some point, a cocksure boy must walk across no-man’s land and ask a girl to dance. Not quite how it happened for me unfortunately. I waited patiently while one by one, the better looking boys paired off with the prettier girls for an awkward meeting of bodies and, if lucky – depending on which way you look at it – a potential meeting of mouths. As a surveyor of this, I was able to pass judgement: ‘He’s way too good looking for her’, ‘Oh no, how could she kiss him?’ Yet as the nasty pop songs unfolded and the dance floor became stickier with spilt soft drinks, I realised that I was now part of a diminishing crowd: The Leftovers.
I realised this meat market was not about which crowd or clique you were in at school – this was all about looks, and, just as the prime fillets were being bought, I was getting left behind like a fatty leg of lamb. Something had to be done. I sucked in my stomach, pushed out my molehill chest and scoured that room like a sniper. I spotted my target (perhaps prey would be a more suitable word) – a skinny, short boy with an oversized purple shirt and big feet. I stared – eye contact was the best method, or so I had been told. He glimpsed back at me, but only fleetingly. His rabbit-in-headlights look could not have been more telling. But I was prepared to mow down this little wimp like an HGV in order to prevent a full-scale embarrassment in front of my classmates. Realising that his feet must be nailed to the floor in fear, I approached. ‘Wanna dance?’ I asked casually.
He nodded quickly, his little body quivering in the foresaid shirt.
‘Having fun?’ I asked as we approached the other ‘swayers’.
He nodded once more. What was this guy, mute?
Containing my frustration, we managed to give a convincing enough performance on the dance floor (despite the fact I tried to teach him the moves to Saturday Night Fever). But unfortunately this wasn’t enough. I glanced around and everyone had their tongues down someone else’s throat. I had to move fast – the DJ was playing soppy songs, it must be coming to an end.
On the pretence of needing some air, I convinced Jay (I had managed to coax a name out of him) to join me outside the gym. Outside we were presented with a spread-out array of kissing couples that had sneaked out from the watchful eyes of the teachers. In order to have a story to share later, I needed him to kiss me. Fast. Getting into the mood consisted of me asking, ‘What GCSEs are you going to take?’ My heart was pounding but I was going to have to take charge.
And then it happened: I uttered possibly the most hideous line of my life: ‘You gonna kiss me or what?’
‘Yeh, OK,’ he muttered, before I had to move in for the kill.
And there it was. I had my 30-second exchange of saliva and my tale to tell.
I left Jay discussing his further maths options and returned triumphant . . . and bubbling over with nausea.’
Posted 08/09/2008 15:55:33 by The Between the Sheets team with 0 comments.
Paperback