Balls
Last night was the annual Mayor’s Ball here in Bury, and as ever it provided the ideal mix of mirth, dancing and luke-warm meat.
Tackling the night chronologically, obviously the first major incident of note to be recorded would have to be the fire alarm, which interrupted my first glass of wine and had me leaving the building via the back exit. Not, unusually, being thrown down the stairs by a despairing bouncer, but instead joining the throng of scantily clad ladies and shivering gentlemen forced out into the freezing Prestwich December night air. The Longfield Centre car park is a grim, grim place when it’s raining and cold, and you’re wearing a dinner jacket.
We were joined outside by the brass band, who gainfully played on throughout the drama, lending a “sinking Titanic” feel to the occasion which was appreciated. The firemen duly arrived, and then duly went away again thirty seconds later when it became apparent that the cause of the “blaze” was probably nothing more than a slightly scorched potato.
Thankfully I had managed to order and receive a drink before being unceremoniously told to “get out” by management as the sirens blared, so I had the warming glow of alcohol in my belly. Unfortunately the same could not be said for my party colleagues, some of whom were in this alone, without the comfort of booze to take away the pain. Like an over-long Scrutiny Commission all over again, but with more bow ties.
We were allowed back in soon enough, and after some needless milling about the foody part of the evening commenced, accompanied by a band unremarkable except for their trombonist who was the precise body double of Sir Richard Attenborough. It was like being entertained by the curator of Jurassic Park.
The food itself was traditional silver-service fayre. I don’t know if it’s the law of the land for all such meals to be served on plates hotter than the food, but it always seems to be the case that waiters are forced to almost frisbee the plate towards me to avoid melting their own hands off.
The traditional “spill gravy on my trousers” trick was performed with aplomb by my waiter too. No formal meal is complete without at least some of it ending up on me as opposed to in me.
This years Council dance-athon was somewhat muted, I have to say. There was the sequence dance stuff, but no disco. I can only assume that dancing with a partner was taught in schools until about 1955, since everyone above the age of 60 knows how to quick-step better than how to tie their own shoe-laces, and yet not a single person below that age has the faintest idea. Watching older couples dance is like watching honey flow through a tunnel of silk. I saw a young couple trying to foxtrot last night, and I thought they both had a swarm of bees in their shoes.
Tam once tried to teach me to waltz, but nine bruised toes later she just gave up the ghost and sat back down.
Last year’s disco was deeply disturbing, as my buttocks accidentally grazed those of Ivan Lewis MP on the danceflooor during a rowdy response to “Come on Eileen.” This year there was no such trauma because there was no such disco, and so I remained seated watching the older Councillors cha-cha-cha round the room like there was no tomorrow.
And I left about 12.
Rick
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