Island Hideaway 13 - Purple shirted hand-jive goth girl​​

She wore a purple shirt and did the hand-jive to goth music. Needless to say, it was love at first sight.​​​

Barons on a Thursday night was the place to go, for the likes of us anyway. Most students went to Ritzys, a tame disco-get-pissed-get-laid, but Barons was Indie Night, at a time when indie nights were as rare as hens’ dentists.  We went every week, we being Eddie, myself, Kaz, Mo and people from the radio station.

We half-danced-half-moshed to whatever was playing, even Oasis if we had to, culminating in the  mindless-mad-mosh-mayhem that was the Smiths segue, which was generally the last 15 minutes of the evening, the 15 minutes we all lived our lives for.​​​ This was the early 90s when music was worth the effort of walking round with ears on your head, these days, frankly, I only keep 'em for me glasses.​​​  

​​​Clubbing's not really my thing, you'll be unsurprised to hear. I enjoyed the music, it was my sort of music, but I didn't enjoy not being able to hear a thing anyone said and the evening-long-mime that everyone performed in the hope of being understood. 'Do I want a game of darts? Oh, a drink, you don't need to use quite so much elbow, emphasise the wrist movement, I said you don't need to use quite so much elbow - oh, sod it, thumbs up, smile, yes please, a pint' (points to empty pint glass).​​​

​​​It was at Barons that I first saw her. It was during a goth segue so we'd all left the dancefloor for the bar. It was while I was waiting to be served, as I did a quick scan of the club to see who was where, that I saw her. She was wearing a purple shirt and she was doing a hand-jive to the new Cure single. It was love at first sight.​​​

​​​I  returned to the dancefloor but by the time I got there there was no sign of her and I suddenly realised that I on was on the dancefloor surrounded by goths with goth music playing, like a scene from a bad dream. ​​​

​​​However, this wasn't a dream, I was here by choice, here for a purpose. I began to hand-jive.​​​

​​​I sort of hoped that my hand-jiving would bring her back to the dance floor, like some bizarre mating dance, but she never came and I left soon after, there's only so long you can stand in a crowd of goths doing the hand-jive to Bauhaus.​​​

​​​I looked for her for the rest of the night, brain on overtime thinking of things I could say to her and the suitable mimes to accompany them, such as 'I couldn't help but notice that you were doing the hand-jive to goth music'. But the moment never came, she was gone.​​​

​​​I spent the whole of the next week walking round in a puppy-love-haze, hoping she'd be there the following Thursday. She wasn't. ​​​

​​​The Thursday after that I kept looking round the club, trying to spot her, but there was no sign of anyone in a purple shirt. She probably wasn't a regular. It might be the only time in her life she'd go to Barons. She might not even be from Swansea, she could have been visiting friends. I might have missed my one and only chance, like an astrologer who slept through the passing of Hayley's comet, like a god who slept through the big bang.​​​

​​​My mood was low, and then the goth segues started. ​​​

​​​I kept close to the dance floor (but not too close) looking out for her.​​​

​​​And there she was. She was wearing a purple shirt, of course, was there any other.​​​

​​​I quickly joined the goth throng and began to hand-jive to the Fields of the Nephilim. To my delight, she began to hand-jive with me. We hand-jived on, through the Sisters of Mercy, The Mission and Alien Sex Fiend.​​​

​​​After the goth segue we went to the bar. We shouted at each other briefly, to no avail, then reverted to mime. I gathered she played darts, or possibly wanted a drink, why do people mime that so badly, it's all about the wrist action, you're miming supping a drink not beating Phil Taylor in the World Finals. ​​​

​​​Somewhere amongst the shouting and miming I got a name, Sarah, but that was all. We danced a bit, we drank a bit, we shouted to no effect, we mimed and before you knew it was Cinderella-hour. ​​​

​​​She had to go. She had friends/hand puppets/out-of-control-ferrets - her miming was deplorable.  She wrote her number on the back of my arm with a biro. ​​​

​​​I was overjoyed. I was in a daze. Life couldn't possibly get any better than this. Then life got even better, a bicycle-puncture-incident on a hillside announced the arrival of the Smiths segue. Legs, get ready to dance down to your knees. ​​​

​​​17 minutes of blissful mindless dancing. I was a sweaty, happy, dizzy, mess as we staggered out of the club. I had her number. I had her number written on my sweaty arm, the arm with sweat and sweaty ink gushing down it. ​​​

​​​Shit.​​​