You can dance if you wannoo!

Cat’s Pyjamas is open 24-7. The place never closes. They say there’s not even a key. The doors haven’t closed in ten years or something. So it’s usually the place for a late-night chow. It seems every other place in Jo’burg closes their kitchen at 10pm.
So me and Julian leave the gig at the Roxy halfway through the Diesel Whores set and then pop up to Cats for a chow. But they’re running a queue all the way up the stairs, and as we get to the front, some okes start having a barney. One guy gets punched and there’s people chasing each other down the stairs and stuff. Some guy’s bleeding all over the floor. It’s way unappetising, so we bail.
Jules remembers there’s a Secret party at the Horror Café in Newtown. I’m not feeling that hungry after the violence, but Jules is still peckish, so…
Around midnight we end up outside Tarquino’s in Parkhurst, ordering pizzas through the 24-hour hatch. My ears are still ringing from the Diesel Whores, so I’m keen to just chill on the pavement, hoping they’ll sort of peep down.
While we’re there chilling, just trying to be quiet, some ponce on the balcony across the street at the Jolly Roger starts making fun of my jacket. Like he’s never seen a pink blazer before.
“Hey! It’s one of the guys from the Preen Ad!”
By the time Jules arrives with the pizzas I’m so bitter with this oke I open the box and Frisbee my pizza across the road and onto the balcony of the Jolly Roger. Sadly I miss the twit who’s been chirping me and we have to hurriedly jog to the car upon seeing my fresh pie envelope some innocent lady’s perm from behind.
I think I can hear her shrieking as I start the Renault.
By 1am I’m in the middle of the dancefloor at Horror Café, rocking the pink blazer. I’m surrounded by black balloons and people dressed as Hunter S Thompson jumping around popping them. Luckily I’ve got my Elvis shades on, so I blend in.
The tunes are this Eighties-retro electroclash stuff. It’s indie music, and indie’s got a weird beat to start with. And the pop, pop-pop of the balloons bursting throws my dancing clean out. I’m half drunk and my ears are still ringing.
Jules doesn’t dance, so I’m on my ace.
I’m running low on energy, and my timing’s out, so I bump into the person next to me. I look up and it’s that same black girl I spotted at the Roxy the time Fokof played. Jeez, I’ve been hoping to bump into her for weeks.
I was, like dying to go speak to her that night, but there was some huge Afrikaans oke chatting to her the whole time. And of course I was wearing a moose outfit that night. I wasn’t sure if that was the kind of first impression I wanted to make on her.
So I start concentrating on my dancing now. Getting my groove on, kind of checking out the corner of my eye to see what her style of dancing is, so I can try to fit in with it. She’s got this limbo thing going on, with her hands above her head and taking it down low, gyrating her hips like that. I think they call it kwassa-kwassa style. So I give it a bash. I grind it down as low as I can take it, while that one Men Without Hats song comes on and everyone comes to dance and they drop more black balloons and the pop, pop-pop throws my timing off even worse.
The crush of the people means we end up hip-to-hip in the middle of the throng, both down low, grinding it. I’m getting a cramp in my left calf, but I grin through the pain, and shout to her, “Nice night for it, hey!”
She just smiles and looks down to check my moves – a going-deaf white guy with a pink blazer and cramp trying to pull off kwassa-kwassa. She bursts out laughing and puts her arm around my waist, so we’re dancing next to each other and she can show me how it’s done…
She ‘s got dreadlocks, and one of them brushes against my cheek as she puts her mouth to my ear and says, “Ha, ha! There you go. Just pretend you’re having sex!”
I close my eyes and do just that. Thinking to myself, Jules, you gotta try this dancing thing, dude.