Modern Romance

A cold December night, 2002. My pals and I decided to end a pleasant evening in England's recently crowned newest city with a visit to the 80s bar.

Back in 2002, the 80s bar, or 'Reflex', as the management prefer it to be called, had only recently opened, and had swiftly established itself as the place to see, and the place to be seen, among the Preston glitterati.

This particular eve happened to be a Tuesday, which was karaoke night at said establishment. Slamming down his bottle of Orange Reef onto the bar top with an assertiveness that suggested he had come to a decision, one particular friend strode confidently across the sparsely populated dancefloor and approached the DJ booth.

Removing his aviator sunglasses and baseball cap, the DJ leaned over and accepted my cohort's request that we perform Level 42's seminal work 'Running In The Family'. Before we knew what had hit us, the four pals were stood on the makeshift stage - an allotted corner of the dancefloor - gazing at the blue screen and harmonising along to this classic record.

Not being much of a singer myself, and not wanting to jeopardise the group's portrayal of the piece, I concentrated on my 80s head-bop, and pointing the microphone playfully at members of the crowd. The crowd in this case consisted of a gaggle of girls jiving along to the Level 42 beat, inbetween swigs from bottles of brightly coloured alcopops.

To my lasting surprise, one beauty in particular had seemingly taken an interest in yours truly, and flashed a flurry of coquettish smiles through WKD Blue-stained teeth. This gave me a renewed vigour for my performance, and whilst remaining relatively silent singing-wise, I turned up the visual volume through the medium of dance. Trialling a range of moves that, nearly 7 years later I am yet to perfect, I maintained her gaze in spite of the rigorous workout I was now giving myself.

After 4 minutes, the performance was over, and we stepped down from the stage to widespread apathy. I sashayed over to the young lady, and introduced myself. She was of medium height and build, with a shock of blond hair, a glittering array of jewellery and thoroughly applied make-up.

Unusually, my methods appeared to be working, and when I leant towards her, she did not recoil. Soon we were locked in a passionate embrace, and my heart pounded as she ran her sovereign-laden fingers through my bequiffed plumage. Images flashed through my mind of a whirlwind romance. Dinner at swanky, but reasonably priced restaurants. 3 star holidays to Magaluf or Benidorm. Perhaps even a ring, lovingly selected from an Argos catalogue. My imagination was running wild.

Was this love?

Sadly, I was never to know. As she and I were locking lips, one of my friends, heavily booze-fuelled, had crept up behind me. He raised his bottle of Smirnoff Ice, and with a single tilt of the wrist, poured its contents over my head. My quiff drooped, my hair gel ran into my eyes. As I struggled to regain my vision, blinking through the 5% ABV liquid, I saw my love turn on her heel and storm from the bar, friends in tow.

The fires of passion had truly been extinguished.