ABSTRACT
As we entered the club it was almost surreal to see the most treasured dreams of ours coming true on either side of the room: wall-to-wall fanny-albeit the local variety and some of it a bit rough, too-and fuckloads of beer, gratis. It was a mate of Scott’s thirtieth birthday party. Sean was standing at the bar, already well pissed. He had a big grin on his face when he shouted, ‘Let’s get up’ (on the dance floor). It’s ‘Come on, Eileen’ (a song by Dexy’s Midnight Runners). And we did, approximately twelve of us. We danced-if that is the right word for it-for most of the rest of the evening. I joined in, but I also observed it all. To the casual observer, the scenes that took place that evening probably resembled a series of snapshots from a slapstick comedy. As the DJ flipped through his repertoire ‘the lads’ could be seen, at different points, pushing and shoving, holding hands, holding each other, lying on the dance floor; generally ‘having a good time’. Yet what I felt and observed was something more than that. It is difficult to describe exactly what it was, but it was like a Maffesolian ‘eruption’ of a communal ‘will to live’ and it was masculine, exciting, mystical, erotic, aesthetic and magical, all at the same time. And it was about us; just us.
