BEATS OF LOVE
111. Turn! Turn! Turn! (To Everything There Is A Season) by The Byrds
The first few times I attended The Hangout as Isadoras, pissed out of my tree, I danced wildly. Meeting a lovely, bright-eyed girl in a suede dress on the dancefloor whose Hulme sofa I later collapsed on.
I awoke having my hair playfully stroked with Bob Marley playing on her cassette player and thought I'd gone to heaven. Fast forward to the following Friday evening and I'm half cut but paralyzed by nerves, unable to call the number she'd given me. Then my good mate Stu, in exasperation, took the phone and, impersonating me, arranged my date.
Locking a guy out of his own car as he got battered in my place was bad, but actually trumped by a case of mistaken identity. I emptied the dregs of my Holsten Pils into a driver's open window as we exchanged expletives. Further up the road, the irate driver, now armed with some lead piping, shoved straight past me and instead hospitalised my mate. So I deserved this.
This being the crippling fear I was now experiencing in the club. The bemused girl attempting to hold my hand was scaring me. In fact, everything I set eyes on was. Even Stu, who seemed to have a whale of a time. I was better at closing my eyes and listening to Dave Booth's brilliant tunes. Then, as I nervously sidled away from my date, I experienced my Damascus moment. Exploring the swirling lights when this mighty tune came on and a small group of folk who looked like Candy Flip encouraged me to hold hands. We all danced together, only we didn't just dance, we flew up into the air and became a tangible mass of love. Feeling truly incredible and something akin to what I hoped clubbing could feel like.
I had a dilemma: did I phone the girl to apologise or did I chase that incredible high? In fact, no dilemma at all. 
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