Soul Man, a pensioner in a 5-year-old's body. He tapped, he grooved, he sung. Not so much square peg in round hole, only a drunken joiner would try that, just an inebriated old man who not only believed that he was lord of the dance, but one willing to demonstrate publicly that while most of the time you are stuck behind a slow-moving Punto crammed full of retirees, occasionally Michael Jackson's spirit will clamber inside an elderly Foster-drinker and turn him into the world's worst nightmare.
Trashy Christmas lights, an irritable Jack Russell and the infuriating sounds of Bryan Adams, but that old man danced like all depended on it, he grooved to every track on that unimaginably tasteless playlist but bloody hell, as I enjoyed a solitary pint of flat, pipes-need-cleaning Stella after a soul-destroying evening grouting the bathroom, he made my day.
Just before I left, as Led Zep took the room, he shook and shuddered like a microwave plate off its runners, rubbed his hands with glee and single-handedly made the world feel just great. It's all about the little things.
Rubbish, OWO, Braja, Dumbass, GI, Harmony, everybody, miss the old days. Suspect I've dropped off most of your readers by now, but I couldn't resist.