Groove it, Honey Joe!

It took my brother no less than two hours, forty three minutes, and twenty five seconds (he says he timed it) to persuade me to go with him to the discotheque in the village. I don't normally go in for that sort of thing - discotheques I mean - and I didn't really want to go in for it then, but, my parents assured me, it was free.

"But what if the place is full of neds ?" I asked as we left the house, feeling suddenly shaky.
"Oh don't be so thick," Pete retorted.
He apparently had no more to say on the matter, so I kept my trap shut and toddled along. I'll confess that neds (a general term for a group of male adolescents - hooligans, teddy-boys, members of the Salvation Army: one didn't know till one was beaten up, or not) have always been one of my greatest sources of discomfort. The mere sight of a group of them makes my scars, wounds and ruptures itch, before I've had time to receive them.

Just in case of costs I'd taken along three shillings. I asked Pete if he had any money. He nodded, feeling in his jacket pocket.
Someone just then must have opened the discotheque door: there was a screaming, screeching, booming noise of what must have been at least a million decibels that sent us skidding, scraping and bouncing about fifty yards back up the road. We were stuck there flat on our backs for at least five seconds, or it may have been six, till someone else mercifully closed the door again and we were able to peel ourselves from the ruffled tarmac and resume our journey.

I noticed, as we approached the tiny 16th century-looking shed, hidden in the shadows behind the Cock, which once a week had the audacity to call itself a discotheque, that on either side of the road were bent lamposts, overturned dustbins and various oddments of litter (dead dogs, prams, cabbages) which were the result of the sonic gale.

Turning the corner we could see the doorway of the discotheque. Then as we were crossing the road, three leather-jacketted, winkle-pickered, slimy-haired Greasers (an appropriate anme) were ejected from the back door of the Cock. I screamed, and threw myself against the wall. Pete did too. We gave them time to reach the top of the road before removing ourselves from the humanoid impressions we'd made in the brickwork, and before going into the discotheque I took a last look at them as they were strangling an old lady with bicycle chains.

I paused at the door to read a scrawled notice pinned to it: "If you're not sixteen - beat it I"
Relief! I grabbed the brother and began dragging him away. "Come on. You're not sixteen - let's get."
He struggled free. "I'm not going home. I'm going in. I didn't come this far for nothing."
He was right. We'd suffered the unbearable heat - the terrible thirst - the vultures - worse could not be. So in we went I
The noise was terrific I My whole body was twisted, torn at, wrenched, and completely battered by the oppressive barrage of sound waves. I could hardly breathe.
On my right, sitting on the floor, leaning against the walls, lying on tables, dangling from light-bulbs, and hanging from window-ledges by their false eyelashes were a score or so colourfully and exotically dressed wenches. Most were smoking and/or drinking. One or two occasionally twitched their nostrils in time to the music. It struck me (a rather dirty trick, as I wasn't at all expecting it) that they were all wearing the same outfits, but perhaps it seemed so because of the dull lighting, and because I wasn't wearing my glasses.
On my left was the most murderous looking bunch of neds I had ever seen. They were dressed alike: black suits and ties and white shirts, and were sitting ranged along each wall - there was a bar at the far end - each clutching a pint mug in his right hand, and a cigarette or knife in the left.
My knees had begun to weaken, and a million terms of abuse, aimed telepathically at my brother, swirled round my mind. But before I'd time to inconspicuously back out a ten-ton fist smashed down on my shoulder and spun me round. I was facing the knees of the most massive bouncer who had ever smashed me on the shoulder and spun me round. He must have said something : his lips moved. I screwed up my eyes, cupped my mouth with my hands, and with as much volume as I could squeeze out screamed, "Pardon?" He looked a bit angry at that, then repeated it - that is, his lips moved again.
Fortunately, before he had time to rip off both my arms, I noticed on a table by his ankles a battered rusty tin containing a few coins. Money! We had to pay ? I broke into a sweat. I hadn't the least intention of staying, and neither was I going to pay up then leave. "How much?" I screeched. Big Boris held up three fat fingers. "Three bob?" He nodded, and spat out a nail. "Give's your money," I said to the brother, stalling for time. "I've only got a shilling," he whispered.
Saved I I stood on tip-toe and shouted again. "I'm going home. Haven't got enough money." He frowned. "Wot?" Picking myself off the floor after the blast I shouted, "I'm going home for money. I'll be back in a minute." The sweat was dripping off my chin. He frowned, grunted, then turned away. I grabbed the brother and dragged him out. We'd