THE ROYAL

From the early nineteen-fifties to late sixties everyone went there. Well that's what it seemed like at the time anyway. You queued to get in, paid your entrance fee, I think it was about three shillings and sixpence, queued to put your overcoat into the cloakroom, were lucky if you could find a free table or seat at the bar. It was best to strut your stuff as early as you could because to dance 'properly' was impossible when the place was full. But everyone went there, it was a sort of 'Rite of Passage' if you see what I mean. You'd graduated from the local hop but weren't quite ready to tackle the Lyceum in the West End of London. You'll realise, of course, I'm talking about The Royal, the dance Hall in Tottenham High Road, just down the road from St. George's Hospital, opposite the Police Station. Very useful, both those institutions were at the time. It wasn't always peaceful on Saturday night at The Royal.

Now for those of you that couldn't make it to The Royal, perhaps I should give a bit more detail about the place. To get there you took any one of the large number of buses that stopped right outside. You couldn't miss it, coloured neon lights and all that, jazzing up a building that although in daylight looked a rather tired and dilapidated, at night still held out the promise of glamour and glitz. It gave the impression that it had, at one time or another, been a theatre or a cinema. Certainly the foyer was set up in the same style. You know what I mean, someone in a small glass fronted cubicle took your money, and the tickets shot out of a slot in the counter with a 'clunk' that indicated that no money would be returned under any circumstances. On either side of the inner entrance stood two rather large 'attendants', they clipped your tickets and allowed you to pass…after having given you a look that said 'OK go in but behave yourself'. It was good advice.

The ballroom was reached through a wide but short passage, off of which were the gents and the ladies room. It never failed to intrigue me that although the girls went in one by one they inevitably came out mob-handed, it was as if they'd arranged to meet there. Just as well really; we fellas went separately, knowing there would be a number of our mates there. We came from Hackney and were not always welcome on the Tottenham Manor. The group of us that met there, though, made a point of avoiding trouble. We were there with our girlfriends (They were referred to as 'birds' in those days) to enjoy ourselves not to get involved in a 'bundle'.

My memories of The Royal had more or less faded into the mists of time until last Saturday evening. Then three generations of my family were watching the BBC's hit show "Strictly Come Dancing". They all love it and never miss either Saturday or Sunday's programme. The girls all oohed and aahed at the glam and the dresses, and we all admired the skill and talent of the dancers and the celebs. I freely admit to being bowled over by the sheer showbiz of it all. They must all be so fit, and how do they learn those complicated dance-steps in such a short time? It took me ages to learn even the simplest of steps. The youngest of the grandchildren asked her grandmother if these were the sort of dresses she had worn when she was young and sighed with envy at the reply, "Yes of course but only the pretty dresses not the skimpy ones." Thus encouraged she asked if they were the dances she had danced with granddad. "Something like that," came the cautious reply, we both grinned at the memory.

It's funny how a chance remark like that can set off a whole load of memories, one leading to another, then another and on into a flood of nostalgia. My mind began to wander as the actor from "East Enders" (I use the description rather than his name deliberately, you'll see why if you read on a bit further) took the floor. He danced beautifully yet again, stylish, confident, he looked every inch the sort of leading man you saw in the musicals of the fifties. I began to smile, then I just couldn't help laughing. Here was a bloke from the East End waggling his bum and waving his arms and fingers around like a ballet dancer, when they weren't wandering all over his partner's body! And we had just been asked if we had danced like that when we were young……..my mind boggled at the thought!

The more I looked into the scene on the screen before me, the more I realised that the set was a dead ringer for "The Royal". I wondered if Bruce Forsythe had been there as a young man, I bet he had. There was the same circular dance-floor; the same layout of the tables around the floor, the bar away to the left, behind where the judges sit. The stage was the same too, the band always sat there. The M.C, yes there was always one of them too, always came on to the stage from the left as you looked at it, just like the contestants do in the competition. No canned music in those days and the only flashing lights came from the revolving mirror ball hanging from the ceiling in the centre of the dance-floor. They often used that for awarding the prizes in the Spot Dances. Do you remember the Spot Dances? When the dance stopped the M.C. asked a daft question and those with the answer would rush to give it to him. Or the band-leader would call out directions to the M.C. on the dance floor and after many twists and turns the winner was announced. There was never a great prize but somehow you felt rather clever if you won.

The similarities stopped there though. There were rules governing the activities at 'The Royal' no matter what day you went there. Some were written but the important ones weren't. The latter were by far the most important and the most dangerous to ignore or break. You had to be properly dressed, no tie…no entry, well that's fair enough. If you had been barred for fighting previously you wouldn't get in. Don't ask me how they knew, they just did. It was a bad idea to get cocky with the attendants, they could all give a very good account of themselves and wouldn't hesitate to do so at the first sign of trouble. All that was obvious enough, the real rules applied once you were inside and looking around to see who was about.

On arrival in the Ballroom, all red carpet and cream and gold walls with the shining dance floor polished so highly you could almost see your reflection in it, you would first suss out where your mates were and work your way towards them, forming a loose group that stayed more or less together for the rest of the evening. Then a few drinks at the bar and you'd dance the evening away to the sound of a big band like Cyril Stapleton, Ted Heath or Joe Loss. They had singers too. Dennis Lotis, Dicky Valentine and of course the glamorous Lita Rosa being the best known. There were at that time two main streams of dancing, Old Tyme and Ballroom, we all of course only danced the latter. Then the Cha-Cha-Cha was born!!! We all viewed the new dance doubtfully. It was OK for the girls to wriggle about like that, but any bloke who waggled his bum or waved his arms and hands about all over the girl's body like they do now would have been viewed with grave suspicion. If he had been dancing with his own girlfriend he stood a fair chance of a belt in the chops, if dancing with someone else's he would almost certainly have come to grief and in either case his actions would have called forth some rather unpleasant comment from his male friends.

Then suddenly the passage in which the 'rites' took place became a wind tunnel in a raging gale. The Twist followed the Cha-Cha-Cha and after that came Rock and Roll, the seismic reaction to the swivelling hips and wobbly legs of Elvis Presley finally hit The Royal and Ted Heath, Joe Loss and the others were out and in came the groups, beetles were no longer insects you found in the garden, rolling stones no longer the game played in Victoria Park on the bowling green. The Mersey Sound caught on like wildfire, the Dave Clarke Five became more or less a fixture at 'The Royal' and they twanged their guitars and screamed their most famous song 'Bits and Pieces' at you all evening it seemed. It was clearly time for my generation to make way for the new. Our way of dancing, controlled, close to, tactile, inter-active, responsive and with the fragrance of perfume all around…to us it had been heady stuff but now it was considered 'old fashioned'.

Now the Twist and the even more uncontrolled Rock and Roll ruled the dance floor. No longer the close contact between you and you partner, now you danced about five feet away from each other, hardly acknowledged each other's existence and leaped about like whirling Dervishes. Some of the activity looked positively indecent. If that was to be the way of dancing for the future, many of us felt the new generation was welcome to it. A new era had been born for the music industry and for 'The Royal'. It was obviously true for the former but looking back it was the beginning of the end for 'The Royal' and other dance halls like it. The insolent, mocking sound of change and aggression in the music transmitted itself to those on the dance floor. There didn't seem to be any rules any more and as always happens in those circumstances, violence followed.

The reputation of The Royal, always a bit dodgy, went downhill fast and despite Herculean efforts to save the place it closed in the late sixties. With it went an era that until recently I thought was forgotten by everyone, but it isn't forgotten. Look at the enthusiasm generated by Strictly Come Dancing, admire and appreciate the talent and elegance of the dancers, admittedly some are a bit OTT but that's the age we live in. Who knows perhaps 'The Royal' will re-open?…..