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So here it is punters. The first adventure! Hussey’s riot
begins.

I awoke the next day in my room, caked in that London, hangover sweat,
mind troubled by images.

Twirling bodies, a beautiful girl. Barndating?

What did it all mean? Well sit back reader and let me dream it all up
for you…you are feeling very sleepy…drink this, yes they are
alka seltzer…

Between the dark oak panels of Finsbury Town Hall the coat queue is
a-song with chatter. I am lined up by myself, jacket over one arm, Red
Bull and whiskey in the other. Above my head, over a set of sombre
doors gold leaf spells ‘Council Chambers’. Through another, a much
larger portal, something energetic is happening.

In the vaulted distance rises a stage. On it a woman in a red
motorcycle helmet is screaming directives as 12 check shirted
musicians twang idly behind her waiting for the go.

‘Yeah are you up for the best one!? THE FINSBURY REEL!’ Helmet head
shatters at the audience.

‘We made this up! It goes like this!’ In her leather mini and
skyscraper platforms she goes through a partnerless mime. Quick fire
dance steps, they fizz into unremembered nothing. She shows us again,
throwing some insane high kicks at the end.

By this time I have dragged myself to the front and am gazing moon
faced up at the funny lady with all the other Barndaters. Looking
around I find ribbons in hair, a sprinkling of ten gallon men and
throngs of pink faced women.

They look ecstatic. They look sweaty.

‘ONE-TWO-A-ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR!’

The dancing begins except dancing isn’t quite it. Its more like
middle-class crowd trouble. A beautiful woman snatches up my hand and
I become part of her jostling circle. Like many of the cowgirls here
she’s wearing a fetching gingham collision, Karen Millen vs. Shane.

We smile. She has apple cheeks and metal toed bootees. They sparkle, we twirl.

But then! The dance has snatched her and I am left catching the hand
of a dripping man. Despite a fine mustache, a real ‘Wanted Poster’
curler, he is not my type. I have greater problems to deal with.
Someone behind is kicking the bejesus out of me. Every time we come to
a certain step toes thump into my backside, sharp ones too.

Turn dozy-doh whack! Turn dozy-doh whump!

I turn to complain, only to find the apple cheeked girl. So this is
‘Barndating’ I think. She smiles and I melt.

Soon more people pile on, the music changes to a demented waltz and
everything cranks up a notch. I text someone in the toilets, buy
another round and come back to the gyroscopic mass.

Before me the swamp of charging lines and incestuous circles break and
reform. No longer a dance floor it reminds me more of a football
terrace, loosely choreographed. Still everyone is having grand fun,
you can see it, grins are breaking out everywhere.

Of course I am Red Bull and Jacks down (or up) by this point. Maybe
its my head, not the dancers spinning. I retreat to the calmer
fringes, gathering myself and wondering about the funny tent in the
corner. A sign outside reads ‘Romancers Retreat’ and within, under dim
fairy lights, couples fondle in treacled motion.

It’s all too much, my vision is whirling so I slip away. Maybe I’ll get
lucky and meet ‘apple cheeks’ at the bus stop? But no, no London fairy
tale for me this time. I find only that red bench and three slumped
Barndaters, waiting on the N19.

What a night though! Dances had been danced and hours passed in
seconds. Barndating I will be back and next time I’ll bring my hat.

Want to go Barndating? Surf to Cutashine’s
Facebook group. They plan a Valentines hoe-down, the jacked up
rascals.

Tune in next week as Patrick goes to a filthy house party!
And if you don’t know what on earth is going on click One
Million Parties for the instructions.