Back in the good old days (when dancing meant exploding), things were..... just..... better. Back when twitter meant the morning chorus was about to be disturbed by Carruthers with the 12 bore, or online entertainment meant catching a peek of the Lady's undergarments hanging out to dry, a reveller would be warmly welcomed to an evening's entertainment by jovial tunes, brightly coloured tickets would be dispensed by the box office, viewing of the performers would be from unevenly sprung blood-red velour seats, housed within an ebony shoe box. The gentlemen would look resplendent parading the latest style of moustache (my own style being "The Partyboy"). The women wore their upper-lip-covering with delight, pride and style in equal measure.
Then the players themselves would take to the stage to regale their audience with tales of their travels about the new world from the streets of Montmatre to New Barcelona to the mythical land of Desborough to life in their home village. On occasion, a minstrel may even request to be one's dog !
Oh, what days, what simple fun, such a shame that the modern world has put paid to their like. And the dodo.
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