Disco-dancing and disappearing tights

It was early December when he first caught my eye. I was immediately drawn to the lad, the coolest kid I’d ever seen. He danced with a group of people, grooving with an ease and energy that elevated him above the crowd. And what’s more, he bopped like he’d bought the floor, he owned it. I tried to emulate his moves as I danced to ‘Gloria’ by Laura Brannigan in The Kilmore Disco.

Drenched in disco-sweat I sat next to a friend and asked, “Did you see that lad the other night, he was brilliant, who is he?” The friend nodded, “He’s with that new crowd from England, I think.” That made sense, I’d never seen the likes of him or his crowd in Cavan.

With the Leaving Cert completed; I travelled to Dublin to begin my first year at The National College of Art and Design. The place was full of: New Romantics, Goths, Punks, and Raging Queens. For a shy Cavan kid, it was daunting and exciting in equal measure – I forgot all about the song and dance lad. I was now a fully-fledged art student trying to effect an arty-college-cool.

Back in Cavan for the weekend, Blessings Bar was the place to be. One Saturday night, Cavan’s cool crowd had organised an event entitled ‘The Natives are Revolting’ an evening of edgy-art, music, and performance: a superlative showcase of creative talent. Afterwards my conundrum was where to finish off the evening: the Kilmore or the Springs?

I opted for the Kilmore and its state of the art lighting system. I wasn’t a cool muso, cheesy pop was my thing and the Kilmore delivered a poptastic set, delivered by a DJ man I’d be-friended. This particular night he invited me into his booth to help set up tracks on a video monitor. That’s when I saw the lad again; awe-struck I repeated my mantra to the DJ, “He’s a brilliant dancer and performer.” He agreed, then shouted in my ear, “I need to talk to you at the end of the night, stick around.”

Helping him pack his car that night he proffered a proposal, “You’ve a good ear and eye for the disco, will you be a judge for Cavan’s disco-dancers?” And thus I found myself travelling round Cavan’s Discos, shimmying the floors to select the best dancers for entrance into National Finals. It was a dream job, I Strictly Revelled in it.

I didn’t judge that lad on any dance floors. For now he was no longer the young gun cavorting with his mates across video screens. Instead he idealised the festive season with friends in a cabin situated in a snow covered landscape; it was an aspirational Christmas beyond my dreams. And this time it wasn’t his moves that struck me, it was his hair.

I hated my hair, tight coily-curls clung to my scalp like rusty bed springs. I didn’t have his voice nor moves, so I set about trying to have his hair. Over time, I’d discovered a way to achieve something like it; and I planned to debut my new hair-do at the St Stephen’s Night Disco. On Christmas night with Mam and Dad in bed, I began the methodical routine: 1. Blow-dry. 2. Cut the foot end off a pair of Mam’s tights. 3. Force foot of tight over head to flatten hair through the night. I’d had a few practice runs and was confident it worked.

That morning was a rude-awakening. Mam cha-charged into my room, quick-stepped toward my sleepy head and rumba’d aloud, “I wondered where all me tights were disappearing to!” She ripped the straightener off my head and waltzed away.

Still, I went to that night’s disco with a semblance of his hair, albeit a brunette version. And, I gave my heart to a beautiful girl, who gave it away the very next day (and rightly so).

The song ‘Last Christmas’ is currently omnipresent on our airwaves. I ache every time I hear it. Also, I find it difficult to watch the video, given the sad fact that December 25 was his literal ‘Last Christmas’ on this earth.

George Michael: his voice, music, moves, style, and hair, were with me at every pivotal moment of my life – I miss my old song and dance lad.

Sadly, I’ve no longer any use for tights, for the curly-coils have long since disappeared.