Coops

Of The Way We Were Posted by coops, 21 May 2009 · This is the nighter, where we danced in our teens To records by Foster, Parker and Sheen, tunes from the 60s, the 70s and more, We'd thumb it to Wigan, hundred miles from our door Passing through Knutsford, taking our gear: Our heads soon a-buzzing, singing tunes we shall hear. Past sleepy towns, pubs closing for the night Their punters are pissed and ready to fight We smile at these mortals, Our eyes wide as portals. As their night it ends, Ours slowly begins Dropped off at Wigan, it's the end of the world Get funniest looks from local boys and their girls. Our trousers are bags; As we draw on our fags. No coats on our backs to combat the cold, We're young and we're speeding, not pissed up and old. It's two in the morning, Casino is closing. Locals kicked out, half pissed and imposing They soon see the thousand, waiting outside, They haven't a clue 'bout Lou's Ragland and Pride The crush gets much tighter as they open the door. Up steps we are carried, feet not touching the floor At last we're inside and the buzz starts again, Like Gods those few dee-jays play dancers' refrains Hearts thumping and beating at double the pace Get down off the Balcony to grab dance floor space Al Foster he leads us with haunting Wolf-flute The smell of the sweat infuses with Brut The girls are-a-spinning, skirts fly in air The gum gets a chewing, we haven't a care The beat and the whiz keep us pounding for more Can't leave the dancing, or step off the floor There's back drops and back flips, stompers and spinners The country's top dancers, each one is a winner No beer to confuse us, making heads thick just bottles of Coke and Number 6 tipped. There's Kev, Russ and Richard, and John Vincent too They know what to play, they know what to do Tune after tune some great and some poor But all leave us aching whilst craving for more. It's soon ten-to-eight Jimmy Radcliffe plays loud We're still there a dancing, the young and the proud We're part of a scene, so friendly, so tight Our rituals are held deep into the night Dean Parrish then signals the end, it is here We look for our bags, the rest of our gear. The night may be over, as we leave we are singing, Bright morning sunlight as our eyes start a stinging As the rest of the world slowly wakes from it's sleep they haven't a clue of the faith we did keep We get on our coaches, in cars or on trains And head south for Whitchurch where we'll dance once again