Authors: Dan Tunstall
Robbie and Dylan seem strangely fascinated by their mobiles, so I stand up.
“I'm there,” I say.
It's busy as we try to get served. The floor of the hall is polished wood, but there's carpet near the bar area. It's so sticky, every time my foot comes off the ground it makes a noise like someone unfastening a piece of Velcro. Or it would do if I could hear anything above the sound of
Agadoo
. International DJ Tony Curtis has started his set. I don't think it's going to be cutting-edge stuff.
George is the tallest bloke in the room and he stands out a mile, so it's not long before we've got someone's attention. I'm a bit nervous about us being asked our age, but not a lot. The White Thunderbolt has taken the edge right off my anxiety.
“Four pints of Carling,” George says.
The barmaid is a middle-aged woman in a sleeveless white top. She's got a Taz tattoo on her upper arm and blonde permed hair tied in a bunch on top of her head. She doesn't even bother to look up. She just pours the drinks, takes George's money and hands him his change.
George looks at me and winks. He hands me two pints and gets the other two himself.
We weave back to our table and sit down.
Robbie picks up his pint.
“Any problems?”
“Piece of cake,” George says. “Two pound sixty-five a pint, mind you.”
I look across at Tony Curtis's DJ booth. It's like a picnic table with an awning over the top, spray-painted black. There are two signs like car numberplates screwed to the front.
INTERNATIONAL DJ
TONY CURTIS
Two sets of multicoloured disco lights are twirling on either side. Tony is a fat bloke with spiky hair, wearing a white
Mens' Health
T-shirt. One of those ones they give away free when you take out a subscription. His beer gut is hanging out underneath, and every now and then he tries to shrug the T-shirt down so less flesh is on show.
Agadoo
is finished, and Tony is giving a big shout out to the Kettering Posse.
Dylan pulls a face.
“What makes him an International DJ?”
“He once went on a day trip to Calais,” I say.
Tony Curtis's DJ set goes on for the next twenty minutes. It's a shocker.
The Birdie Song
.
Oops Upside Your Head
.
The Lion Sleeps Tonight
. Eighties hell. When he wants to get right up to the minute, he puts on
Livin la Vida Loca
. It's not only the Kettering Posse he's giving a big shout out to. It's the Leicester Boys and the Colchester Crew.
I nudge Robbie.
“Go and get him to play something for the Letchford Lads. See if he's got any Westlife.”
Robbie grins.
It's getting hot in the Family Entertainment Centre. The whole room is packed out now. The only fresh air is getting in through some little windows high up along the side walls, and a couple of skylights. Me and George have another trip to the bar to get the drinks in. Dylan's paying this time. As I sink into my chair, I can feel sweat trickling down my sides. I slide my phone open. Coming up to half past nine.
Tony Curtis fades out the last few bars of
Is This the Way to Amarillo?
His disco lights have stopped twirling. The three people on the dance floor shuffle back to their tables.
We all look at one another. Something's about to happen.
“Okay, you wacky Wonderlanders,” Tony says, voice rising to build up the excitement. “We're going to have a change of pace now. I'm sure you're going to love this. It's our host with the most, TV favourite, our very own VIC WHITLEY!”
The room is plunged into complete darkness, then the maroon curtains roll back and Vic Whitley bounds onto the stage. I recognise him straight away. It's not because I've seen him on TV. It's his clothes that are familiar. The red blazer and the grey trousers. It's the bloke we saw outside Happy Valley, smoking. The one who looked like a sex offender.
“How are you doing?” he bellows. He's picked up a microphone on a stand from somewhere but he hasn't managed to switch it on. He fiddles for a while, then tries again. “Whitbourne Wonderland - how are you doing?”
There's a sort of grunt from the crowd, but it's good enough for Vic.
“Before we go any further,” he says, “I've got someone I want you all to meet. He's my cheeky partner in crime, the kiddies' favourite. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, here he is, the Wonderland Holiday And Leisure World mascot, Benny the Bear.”
The music for
Teddy Bears' Picnic
comes on, a door opens over by the bar and a man in a furry suit and dungarees starts to make his way through the audience, dancing around, patting people on the head. Benny gets to the front and hauls himself onto the left-hand edge of the stage as the music fades out.
With Benny's grand entrance taken care of, Vic launches into his spiel.
“What do you get if you cross a mouse with an elephant?” he barks.
There's no response. I can hear a few groans. Vic's stepping from foot to foot, desperate to deliver the punchline. He's got a burn mark on the shoulder of his blazer, like someone's stubbed a fag out on him.
“Big holes in your skirting boards,” he says.
There's a faint sound of laughter from the far right corner, but as I look across, I see that it's because a bloke in an Arsenal shirt has spilt his pint all over his trousers.
George rolls his eyes.
“When was this bloke on the TV?”
“
Sunday Night at the London Palladium, 1973
,” Robbie says.
George laughs.
Robbie's expression doesn't change.
“I'm not joking.”
Fifteen minutes into Vic's act and things are pretty grim. Because it's a family show, Vic's material is on the limited side. There's the odd mother-in-law joke, but cabaret-type stuff and sexual references are definitely not on the agenda. The latest gag involves Mickey Mouse, Minnie Mouse and a rabbit-shaped jelly mould. A couple of the kids near the front are crying. Sections of the crowd look like they're losing the will to live.
Some people are having fun though. The over-sixty-fives are lapping it up. It took them a while, but now they're all well away. One woman over to the far left is in hysterics. She's honking and bellowing like a sealion, slapping her hand against her knee.
Dylan looks at me.
“Tell you what,” he says. “If she keeps on like that, she's going to burst her colostomy bag.”
Vic's routine drags on and on. While he's going through his repertoire, Benny the Bear is cavorting at the side of the stage, interacting with the under-fives. He's having a bad time. At one point, a little lad creeps up behind him and squats down while his mate goes in front of Benny and pushes him backwards. Benny goes down hard and his head nearly comes off, but he springs back up and carries on bouncing around.
Ten more minutes and the show is finally finished. There's a bit of half-hearted clapping from the bulk of the crowd, and a standing ovation from the bus-pass-holders. Vic and Benny take a bow. The bloke who spilt his pint has stripped down to his pants now, and he's dancing in front of a couple of women in matching
Over Forty and Still Naughty
T-shirts. He's grabbing his crutch and swinging his hips backwards and forwards. It seems to be going down well.
Vic starts gesturing for the clapping to stop. It already has.
“Thank you, thank you,” he's saying. “You're too kind, you really are.”
Benny the Bear shambles off backstage. Vic bows to the audience one last time and exits stage left. There's a whine of feedback, then
Agadoo
comes on again. A couple of old dears get up and start dancing.
I look around. Another check to see if any girls have arrived. Still no joy. The fat woman in the glasses and her toyboy are snogging now, grappling with each other. I shake my head and stand up.
“I'm off for a piss,” I say.
The toilets are full. A crowd of blokes three-deep is waiting for the urinals, so I head for the nearest of the four locked cubicles. After a few seconds there's a sound of flushing and the door swings open. It's Benny the Bear. He's got a can of Tennent's Super in one paw, and he's got his bear head under his arm. Benny's a red-faced fat man with a skinhead. He takes a swig of his can and looks at me.
“I fucking hate kids,” he says.
When I've taken a long piss, I make my way back through the hall. I'm scouting for girls, but I'm still drawing a blank. Most of the women in the place are about fifty. A lot of them look like they should be working as a landlady in one of the soaps. Tony Curtis has returned to his booth. He's opened his latest stint with
Come On Eileen
, more eighties rubbish, and he's put a smoke machine on. There's so much smoke billowing, I'm half-expecting the sprinklers to get triggered off. Although come to think of it, this place probably doesn't have sprinklers.
As I sit down I notice I'm getting close to the bottom of my second pint. When you add in the can and the cider, I've had quite a lot to drink I suppose. The walk down here sobered me up a bit, but I'm feeling light-headed now. My face is hot and I can feel my pulse in my temples.
Dylan's looking really pissed off.
“Cheer up mate,” I say.
Dylan gestures with his glass.
“Look at this place,” he says. “It's ten o'clock and we've not even had a sniff of a nice bird. It's Grab-a-Granny night.”
I have a mouthful of Carling.
“You wanted to come here. You thought there would be some talent.”
Dylan snorts.
“Bollocks,” he says. “Don't try to pin it on me.”
I switch my attention to Robbie. He doesn't look much happier than Dylan. He's shifting about in his chair, craning his neck to look over the heads of the people around us.
“What's up with you?” I ask.
“I'm getting paranoid about seeing someone who knows my mum and dad,” Robbie says.
I can't say anything to reassure him, so I say nothing. The evening is going downhill fast. Looking up, I see George wandering across towards us. He's got a tray with four pint glasses on it. There's something strange about these pints. They're completely see-through.
George plonks the tray on the table and sits down. There's a sinking feeling in my guts. “George,” I say. “That's not what I think it is in those glasses is it?”
George has got his serious face on.
“It's water, Chris. We need to be sensible. We've been boozing for hours. We've got to stay hydrated.”
I shake my head in disbelief. Robbie and Dylan are doing the same. The thing is though, nobody can be bothered to argue. We down the pints in silence. The night has reached a new low. All sorts of thoughts are floating in circles in my brain. I need to think of something to lift the mood. We can't be sitting here sipping water, feeling sorry for ourselves. This is our first ever real lads' night out.
There's some movement on the far side of the family with the Alsatian. A hen party has turned up. Six women in their thirties done up in French maid outfits and flashing red devil horns. They all look like they've had a few. The bride-to-be has got an L-plate taped to the front of her apron and a bottle of WKD in her hand. She takes a big swig and passes out on the table top.
I have a second quick peek. I'm trying to be subtle, but I get caught. A short woman with one of those haircuts that's smooth at the front and spiked up at the back has seen me. She starts waving. I raise a hand, then pick at the edge of the table.
Robbie looks more animated.
“Who are you waving at?” he asks.
“Table full of women over there,” I say.
Robbie twists round in his seat.
“Shit,” he says. “Cougars.”
I don't get it.
“You what?”
“Cougars,” Robbie says. “It's what they call middle-aged women out on the pull for younger lads. I read it in the Sunday papers.”
I nod slowly.
“Right.”
I have another look across and immediately get spotted again. Another wave. I stare at the floor, glad that it's dark so that no-one can see me blushing. I'm starting to feel uncomfortable sitting here.
Come On Eileen
finishes and the next track booms out.
I Predict A Riot
. It's the first half-decent song I've heard all evening
I jump up. It's a flash of inspiration. A way out of being stuck here like a rabbit in the headlights.
“Come on,” I shout. “Stop moping. Dancing time.”
Before anyone can argue, I've barged my way onto the dance floor. Luckily, when I turn round, the rest of the lads have followed me.
I wouldn't call what goes on for the next four minutes dancing. It's more like jumping around, bumping into people. It's still brilliant though. By the time the song ends, we're all pissing ourselves laughing. The night is finally on course. Tony Curtis is cueing up the next song and I'm hoping it's another good one.
“Righty-ho then Whitbourne,” Tony says. “I call this part of the night The Erection Section. I think all you boys and girls know what I'm talking about. It's time for some slowies. This is a little number I know you're going to remember. It's those Take Thatters, and they're looking to
Rule The World
.”
Dylan looks completely disgusted. He's back at our table in under five seconds. The rest of us are following, but a group of women is blocking our way. The hen party. Before I know what's happening, I've been grabbed by the wrists and dragged over in the direction of the DJ booth by the woman who's been waving at me. When we're in a bit of space she throws her arm round my neck and puts her other hand on my waist. Her wedding ring glints in Tony Curtis's flashing lights.
“Hiya love,” she shouts over the music. “I'm Bev.”
I'm sure
Rule The World
only lasts about four minutes, but it's turning into the longest four minutes of my life. As Take That warble on and on, Bev's embrace starts getting tighter. She's got me by the hips and she's pulling me closer, moving up and down. I look around in panic. To the left George is being manhandled by a big woman with frizzy black hair. Robbie's dance partner is about as tall as him, skinny, wearing an ankle chain. I see Robbie looking and I mouth the word
help
. Robbie laughs and shakes his head.