Oh my godfathers, it's the Love Train

Well what can I say, I was forced. Why else would one carry a briefcase into a seventies' disco? It is almost too close to the events in question to suggest that this reflection can be anything but a traumatised one. But go to the Love Train I did, and I had the joys of watching "The Italian Stallion" Tony Martini lead the dancing all night. One of the things I found most interesting about this particular seventies' night was undoubtedly that there were no fewer than five people willing to assist in the searching and locking away of my precious briefcase, which contained only innocuous copies of the Brahms Requiem, but when I tried to get a drink, the three bar staff who were available for the thousand plus party-goers proved woefully inadequate in doing anything at all. In fact, their blank faces, no doubt betraying two-digit IQs, are the sort I would usually expect to see, erm, well - in Hell. Having waited ten minutes, been pushed in front of by one of the hundreds of Dick Heads present, argued with said Dick Head, I did finally get some service. However, Stupid Bar Cow #1 had the brilliant idea of serving me a double vodka Red Bull in a shot glass. How intelligent. Unsurprisingly, I spilt most of it, since the most drink-spilling song possible was being rendered. I filed through a mixture of Dick Heads and Drunk Stupid Cows doing their best to get into the bodily position required for "Y. M. C. A." I was not impressed.

Earlier a Dick Head had been a Dick Head in the cloakroom queue as I was trying to find a minder for my briefcase. "Uh huh uh huh huh huh," was his initial greeting, of sorts. "Yes?" I said. "What's in your briefcase?" After looking him squarely in the eye for five seconds, I replied, "Music." "Uh huh uh huh huh huh." I despaired. "Are you a terrorist then?" was his next, logical question. Looking him in the eye for a further five seconds, "Yes." I took my ticket and walked off. I reckoned myself to have won that particular exchange, though now doubt he thought the same. The best part was that my cloakroom ticket described my item as a handbag.

And thus ended the Love Train.