Phoenix Night

I know I've previously mentioned - albeit in passing - that special place in my fundus I hold for the city of my spawning: Bradford, West Yorks. It's the home of the curry, hills and disused cotton mills. It's dialect is replete with t', ayes, neys and owts, and vowels are stretched to their elastic limit. Here there is no such thing as the Yorkshire rose, only the 'rerse o' Yor'shire'.

But my filial duty required suspending all prejudices as I schlepped me and my mother up to this begotten place for her friend's 50th. My mum doesn't get out all that much, what with a dog who she treats like a second hairy son and an inability to drive long distances for medical reasons. She and my dad went over to Cumbria for a few days last week, and when she came back she looked relaxed and radiant. I wasn't at all surprised to see how the break had refreshed her because God knows she needs to get out more, although it was a bloody miracle that this state had been achieved with dad in tow.

So with that change fixed in my head I knew she had to attend this event. An hour's happy motoring up the M62 et al and we arrived at Clayton Golf Club, which is perched off a small track outside the city. From the outside it looked like the Phoenix Club; on the inside no different. The entrance to the bar was lined with previous club dignitaries, each in jacket and tie. Some were lit in soft lighting, so I guess they were around in the 80s. In one shot, the guy's eyes seemed to be looking at opposite sides of the room simultaneously. God knows how he played golf. I imagine hours of frustration trying to drive the two balls down the two fairways his mal-binocular vision was picturing. As for driving, you'd hope he could afford a chauffeur.

We entered the main bar and walked into the Pennine Suite. There was a dancefloor; there were helium balloons and decorations; and the ceiling was textured like a perfect line of Tetris blocks. At terrific volume from the left could be heard the Michael Jackson mega mix, comprising 20 straight minutes of the King of Pop's hits remixed by a tone-deaf DJ from the 80s. In fact, I think said DJ was our DJ, only a lobotomised version.

Being the sociable butterflies that we are, my mum and I opted for a corner table out of view from the dancefloor and offering a feeble sound barrier from the aural onslaught. The guests soon filed in and we were surrounded by strangers. We had to talk. Eek! Even more worrying for me was that the natural focal point for my slouched line of sight happened to rest on the low-cut neckline of a woman in her early 60s. I'm afraid she was losing the battle against gravity and my neck is aching slightly from the 2-degree upward tilt it had to adopt to avoid staring into the abyss. I know age affects us all, but there's a time when a different tact has to be taken to flatter the figure as the years roll by as our bodies roll down. Don't get me wrong: I'm no portrait picture so I don't mean to criticise, only observe. Mind you, that same woman commented to me mum that I was a handsome lad, as 'all these half-castes seem to be'. Her choice of terminology left a little to be desired, but as I'm not exactly inundated with flatterers I take what few compliments life chucks at me. My mate Pete, Keanu Reeves, Tia Carrere, Mylene Klass and me: we're all part of the Eurasian Good Look Club.

As the night wound on and the music progressively worsened I just sat and watched the proceedings like the sad fucker I am. It was heartening to see the birthday girl's 80 year-old aunty (not her real aunty, but she's called aunty. We are in the provinces, remember) up and dancing to Rhianna and the Lady Gaga. The DJ was still sat on his arse 2 hours after taking that position. Interjecting tracks with complaints about the lack of dancers, he steadfastly held on to his RnB set in firm opposition to the expectations of the predominantly middle-aged audience.

Soon enough though, it was time to head back home. I know I've probably sounded like a right snob during this post, but I didn't mind the venue, the food was good and you can't argue with pints under £2. Ultimately, however, the point was to give me mum a reason to glam up for a few hours and see her mate. Taking that into account, I can safely say that the night was a success!

Just have to find her some mates in more picturesque parts of Blighty.

Metal Monkey: finding grey hairs on his bonce since yesterday.