My favourite pub allows old people to dance.
Amazing, I know. Right there in front of everyone. Ancient moves for all to see.
There would be publicans in doof-doof establishments who would hand in their trading licence, before they’d allow a measured twirl on the floor. If only they knew what they were missing.
This elderly fun and frivolity occurs every Sunday afternoon. They pack the dance floor. Men and women who remember how to have a good time. There’s much laughter. And some fancy moves.
It’s no community dance hall. The drinks flow freely. This mob was having a good time before colour tv. Yep, THAT long ago.
One bloke seems to be the star. He’s a regular. Must be in his eighties. Always immaculately dressed. And a smile that might be painted on.
I believe there’s a rule that he can dance with any woman he wants. And he does.
The band plays jazz music. Now, I’m not usually a jazz fan. But in the pub, with this crew, the vibe is magical. A basic, raw sound.
It should be said that the band members have been doing these gigs for a very long time. I believe the piano player performed for Churchill the night before his first big wartime speech. No wonder he was pumped.
At some stage in the afternoon, each gets to do a solo. Trumpet, trombone, drums. Always to rousing applause.
At six o’clock, on the dot, the music stops. Everyone goes home. The first time I saw it I thought there’d been a bomb threat, so quickly did the floor empty. Early dinner waits for no-one. And it’s a tiring job, this dancing caper.
What makes these sessions even more appealing, is that these groovy grannies and grandpas share their Sunday with a whole heap of others.
In another part of the pub, the young hipsters are doing their thing, to a driving beat. Head in the other direction, and the punters are at work. And the pool players. Such an Aussie mix.
I know who has the most fun. And it pains me to say that in this instance, it’s not those having a flutter.
Long live the high-stepping, thigh-slapping seniors. Where the ladies keep their shoes on, and the gents tuck their shirts in. Except those wearing delightful Hawaiian numbers.
They remind us that there’s no age limit on having a good time. And that the retiree in front of you in the supermarket aisle, was partying before most of us were born.
Just don’t expect to see them in action after six. Even the wildest jazz dancers have to get their beauty sleep.