You'd have to be mad

Truth is if the bass is loud enough anything can sound danceable. Regardless of whether you are young, hip, trendy or old, or are blessed with the coordination of a giraffechild. Proven without a shadow of a doubt by the middle aged dancer, red-dressed and booted, not to mention the pink tights and spangly hat.

The tune was murdered, bludgeoned by bad acoustics into the soul-destroying sound of a fire engine trapped in a blender. The world reached a new low as a solitary man, krony in hand, grooved in isolation on a shaky wooden chair, twisting his pint on a wallside bench.

Mismatched couple to our right, the unholy partnership of sky blue jumper and leopard skin suit, but hardly as scary as the old man outside. Floppy hat, dark round shades, a cigarette's glow, nothing more could be seen of this old geezer as he watched us all with a disconcerting glare, waving occasionally at the motley crew of longhaired men at the bar.

Minutes later he brushed passed, leant on my shoulder and practically flipped me over. You'd have to be mad to enter a place like this.