I think.
You get the same old bunch at these kinds of gigs.There's the organiser, and a few members of the committee,some lads from the village who'd sort of drifted inbecause there wasn't much on the box except snooker.Everyone wore a mask but hadn't made an effort with therest of the clothes so it looked as though Frankenstein andCo had all gone shopping in Marks and Sparks. There wereScouts' posters on the wall and those special kinds ofvillage hall radiators that suck the heat in. It smelled oftennis shoes. Just to sort of set the seal on it as one of thehotspots of the world there was a little mirror ball spinningup the rafters. Half the little mirrors had fallen off.
All right, maybe three cups. But it had bits of applefloating in it. Nothing serious has bits of apple floatingin it.
Wayne started with a few hot numbers to get themstomping. I'm speaking metaphorically here, you understand.None of this boogie on down stuff, all you couldhear was people not being as young as they used to be.
Now, I've already said Wayne wasn't exactly cut out forthe business, and that night - last night - he was worsethan usual. He kept mumbling, and staring at the dancers.He mixed the records up. He even scratched one.Accidentally, I mean - the only time I've ever seenWayne really angry, apart from the Greebo business,was when scratch music came in.
It would have been very bad manners to cut in, so atthe first break I went up to him and, let me tell you, hewas sweating so much it was dropping on to the mixer.
'It's that bloke on the floor,' he said, 'the one in theflares. '
'Methuselah?' I said.
'Don't muck about. The black silk suit with therhinestones. He's been doing John Travolta impersonations