in honour of the last remaining polaroid stock going out of date on 09.10.09, ten beautiful polaroids of dirtyconverse disco #4 (which took place the day after, on 10.10.09):

the next one is on saturday 10 october. same time same place. EXCITEMENT.

Friday fun for number three. A gamble.

what shoes to wear?

And because converse are the best shoes in the world we let anyone wearing them dance for free. Fools! Now we’re broke, as well as burnt out.

next time your converse will have to be dirty

I just wish my camera was up to the task. It can only take one Converse at a time.

clean converse

It was worth it for this.

disco kicks: better than teenage ones

Sharp.

disco spills

And this, is how all boys should dance.

disco dancing

Preferably on the stage.

up where the gays belong

We [heart] you all. Until the next one. Disco peace.

I know it has taken an implausibly long time to document the aftershock from the first disco but finally, phew, here it is:

disco ticket in a safe place

Someone told us that the second disco would be the hardest. They were right. I blame the stress (not the spritzers) for my lack of memory that night.

That said, somehow we managed to fill our village hall with disco smiles and frankly, awesome dance moves. Thriller has nothing on this.

thrilling on the d-floor

Or this.

disco duck

And we love you ALL.

from village hall to village ball

disco shimmer

more more more

Ten photographs from a fleeting trip to north Wales. Taken on the Isle of Anglesey.

disco dancing in the boston music rooms

Our first disco looked like this from the DJ booth. Of which more later. On Saturday 13 June, in fact.

disco stage dancing

I’m still struggling to locate words that reasonably describe how it felt. After months of thinking about it instead of sleeping and field tripping like a student in freshers’ week, more than 300 people joined us for the first dirtyconverse DISCO. It was quite beautiful. And full of smiles. And not a poser in sight!

disco smiles

One of the more glorious moments was seeing people dance to Sara Brightman’s ‘I Lost My Heart To A Starship Trooper’, which I feel compelled to link to here:

Guaranteed to make you dance with your eyes shut.

eyes shut behind disco hair

more Brightman inspired dance moves

So the toilets were a little minging and the bar unexpectedly busy, but we will be prepared next time. The music and the cheap beer will take us there.

Til next time. May the Brightman be with you.

Brightman vision

Something very odd happened this evening. Less than 24 hours before what could be the most terrifying-yet-exciting night of my life, I narrowly avoided a rocket.

After four months of planning, chatting, booking bars, buying CDs, talking to girls I don’t know, learning to DJ, visiting more nightclubs than any health professional would deem wise, pestering friends, drinking beer, then gin, pestering strangers, riding midweek nightbuses, braving Soho, swearing never to go back to Ghetto (three times I never learn) and generally attempting to infect anyone who will listen with my enthusiasm, it is now the night before the dirtyconverse DISCO.

I’m alternately giddy with excitement and supressing small panic attacks. I’ve developed a love of Hercules and Love Affair, and Tiga, gone off the one Elastica song I thought was sort of alright and become fixated with Pepsi and Shirlie and everything they represent musically.

My mouth is dry, my hair is undercut and I can’t seem to say anything without referencing song lyrics. I have to make sure my hands do not shake between the hours of 11.00hrs and 01.30hrs tomorrow night.

Tomorrow some of my best non-London-based friends are coming to London, and those who are here already are heading to N19 for the Disco.

And tonight I was walking up my road towards my favourite local pub for one sedate beer (21.20hrs) when a fucking rocket flew past me. Clearly, some little oik must have been indulging in the age-old right of passage into feral youth by letting off a screaming rocket outside the firework display environment.

He was either a rotten shot – it passed by my chest, so four feet above ground level – or a bloody good aim – SO close I felt the thrust. Whichever, it missed.

Somehow I stopped walking (no mean feet at 4mph marching pace) and did an involuntary Matrix-style backwards leaning body curve. And watched in slow motion as a firey missile wobbled through the air at speed, across the road, past me and into the hedge.

It either hit or scared a cat, judging by the noise that came from the bush. Whichever, it missed me.

And that is the point, I think. I am lucky: Luckier than I often make the time to realise.

After a few stationary minutes I continued walking to the pub. For one pint of Staropramen.

Breakfast was the predictable menagerie of children swarming around the novelty conveyer belt toaster burning countless slices of white sliced as parents looked over from the temporary bliss of a deserted table.

Crumbs. The children are called things like Jade and Kaleigh and look the part. The dads wear bright white polo shirts and have severely shaved heads with a slightly inflamed pink tinge. The mums all wear fake Ugg boots and jeans with sparkly details on the arse pockets and overuse stretchy wool-nylon polo necked sweaters as they fight losing battles with their muffin tops.

Badly washed plates and leathery bacon rashers sealed together with excess salt. I can’t believe I paid £107.50 for this. It’s definitely time to go home. My cold is in full flow and the wind here is blowing some sort of twisted summer gale through the deceptively sunny sky, which is blue.

I’m mildly astounded that I paid £6.40 for a large glass of pinot and £18 for an average leg of lamb. In Blackpool. Vanilla cheesecake with raspberry compote for desert.

Apparently there is an ‘inclusive deal’ which explains the large number of children and the laid back dress code in the superbly seafront banqueting hall. I wonder briefly where Margaret Thatcher would have sat, before remembering room service.