Home
1980 (15 YEARS OLD)
And Caroline’s Hair Smelled Like Heaven

And Caroline’s Hair Smelled Like Heaven

1980 (15 YEARS OLD)3 weeks ago

Aaah. The school disco.

Remember Saturday Night Fever?

Well, it was nothing like that.

So crap. Yet so magical.

We would have a disco at our school on a Thursday night. I can’t remember if it was once a month or every two weeks.

All I can remember is that I wasn’t allowed to go until I was about 14.

So Blessed George would turn its Assembly Hall, the place where school mass was also held, into the 7th circle of Dante’s Purgatorio. At least that was what Gray Fanny (and, probably, my mum) thought.

Apparently, a few years before I started going, Fanny would go around, making sure there was enough distance between two people slow dancing, so that “the Good Lord could have his space.” But the Good Lord was probably at home, watching football.

By the time I started showing up, she had been taken off disco duty due to complaints and boycotts. She was replaced by a friendlier bunch of teachers: the rugby coach, Mr Longman, Spud, our French teacher, and the ravishing girl’s PE teacher, Ms. Ramsby, who was only in her early 20s.

Eventually, because of the constant attention she would get from the boys who would surround her trying to make conversation, she’d bring her fiance along.

They had a shop set up for the disco. You could buy room-temperature Coca Cola, crisps, and something from the extensive sweet selection. It wasn’t a school money grab, as it was 70s England, and most of our teachers were socialist.

It was simply adults assuming they knew what teens want.

“The slow dances have started? Hold on while I finish my chocolate bar.”

They even sold Milky Bars, a white chocolate bar normal people stopped eating after primary school.

Asking a girl to dance was a massive risk. Even if she said “yes,” you knew that you would be the talk of the school next day. It wasn’t like sending a note or asking a trusted friend to ask someone out on your behalf. You could keep a lid on that.

But not a slow dance at the school disco.

Every movement would be scrutinised by the vast swath of girls who were never asked to dance, eating their Milky Bars knowingly and planning trouble.

If you’ve read other entries, you know my opinion of DJs at the time. The DJs that played at our school were no different. Maybe even worse. Somebody’s unemployed brother earning a couple of extra quid.

But they had mastered the slow-dance trick. And one of 2 slow songs that would always show up in the rotation were either 10cc’s Im Not in Love or the Commodore’s Three Times a Lady. Sometimes both.

The Saturday before an upcoming disco, I was sitting in my bedroom with my good friend Smell, listening to music.

I pulled out an Elvis album (even though I had become less interested in him) and played Sweet Caroline.

Smell just matter-of-factly pronounced, “You fancy Caroline Smith.”

I responded with an offended “Fuck off.”

Which everyone knew meant it was true.

So, several nights later, I asked Caroline to dance. She said “yes,” and we danced to the Commodores.

She was a lot shorter than I was, and the top of her big, curly hairdo (that gave Lionel Richie’s a run for its money) only made it to my chin. It smelled like peaches. Not like the drain-cleaner-smelling shampoo I used.

I was in heaven.

It was the first time I had ever danced with a girl.