An 80s Odyssey Through Glitter, Garlands, and Panic
It always starts the same, respectable, dinner, composed. But the sun had long since gone down, and like all good professionals with name badges and lanyards, we had followed the call. One funfair, one arcade, and a quick detour to a bar with a suspiciously sticky floor and an “80s Y-fronts encouraged” dress code. We’re in Reflex, there are bubblegum cocktails that taste like regret and E-numbers. Someone’s wearing a sparkly cowboy hat, i’m wearing a garland of artificial flowers and very little dignity. The DJ is playing Come On Eileen like it’s a war cry and the crowd is answering the call.
And then there’s him, My friend, convinced, absolutely certain, that he is the second coming of Patrick Swayze. He ballroom dances like he’s in a soap opera and the floor is lava. Arms flailing, hips swaying, spinning women in circles like he’s possessed by the ghost of Strictly Come Dancing. People are cheering. People are fleeing. One woman throws her knickers at him (misses, hits me).
A few hours and several bubblegum cocktails, we’re in Spearmint Rhino, naturally. I’m trying to make peace with my poor life choices via the medium of rum and coke. I wasn’t looking for anything, not spectacle, not contact, definitely not glitter in my bra. I was just vibing with my rum and coke, enjoying the ambient thud thud of questionable music and watching my colleague slowly realise this was not the kind of show they meant by “evening entertainment.”
That’s when she appeared.
The dancer.
She spotted me immediately, and, clearly misreading the quiet woman in the sparkly hat as the big spender, came over with full theatrical confidence. She climbed onto my knee like a large, very determined cat. I froze. My drink wobbled.
She smiled. I smiled back politely. And then I gently said:
“I appreciate the gesture… but you’d have better luck with my colleague.”
She paused. Looked into my soul.
And then, bless her, she nodded, got up, and wandered over to him instead.
He looked at me like I’d just sold him into battle.
He did not appreciate the gesture.
She, however, was now deeply committed to the mission.
I sit there, flower garland askew, contemplating everything I’ve seen:
Glitter.
Denial.
Dirty dancing.
And I think, yep. That was a Tuesday.
It was supposed to be a networking event. You know, professionals, polite chatter over cheap wine and those sandwiches that somehow taste of fridge. Instead… we ended up in a drag bar. Not just any drag bar. A Moulin Rouge-style fever dream, feather boas, glitter cannons, and more sequins than a Eurovision finale. The average age of the men in suits? Somewhere between pensionable and prehistoric.
Cue Dolly Parton.
Not the real one, obviously, but a magnificent, 6’2” queen in heels so high they defied physics; she launched into a routine so intense it would have caused an HR review in any other setting.
Somewhere during Jolene, Dolly turned to face our group and thrust.
Violently.
Repeatedly.
With meaning.
One of my colleagues, I’ll call him Phil, because that’s his name, became obsessed. He started chasing Dolly round the bar, trying to squeeze her foam boobs, shouting, “I just want to know what they’re made of!”
I tried to keep singing with the mic that had been forced upon me, but kept losing my place because a queen was yelling at my other friend:
“You?
You’re BORING.”
I think I dropped the mic at that point.
Might’ve been from laughing.
Might’ve been from resignation.
Either way, Dolly left triumphant, Phil got glitter in his teeth, and I never did get my jacket back.
It was supposed to be a conference. Professional. Educational. People talking about policies in linen shirts. What it became was… well, let’s just say there were no CPDs awarded for what happened next.
First: the heat.
Not just warm, but molten, our brains were melting before the cocktails even hit. We skipped the final session (“something something global trends”) and found ourselves in a smoky underground bar playing drum & bass that could resurrect the dead.
We danced like possessed marionettes, someone was still in a blazer, someone else had removed every layer of professional identity and was now wearing neon sunglasses and grinding on a fruit machine.
There was smoke everywhere. Not mist. Not dry ice.
Actual cigarettes, hundreds of them, indoors, it was like partying inside a chimney.
Someone started a conga line. Someone else bought 40 shots “for the vibe.”
I tried to find a glass of water and ended up with two mojitos and a man named Zoran explaining the philosophy of life through hand gestures and plum brandy.
We made it back to the hotel at 4 a.m.
Someone was barefoot.
Someone else had lost their conference badge and replaced it with a banana sticker.
I was fairly sure I still had lungs, but couldn’t prove it.
We woke up five hours later to a keynote speaker talking about flood mitigation.
The irony was not lost on us, because we were still drenched in rum and shame.