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toyboy.
    â€œRight then,” Robbie says. “Who’s getting the beers in?”
    Everyone looks at George.
    â€œGo on then,” he says. “I’ll get them, but I’ll need someone to give me a hand.”
    Robbie and Dylan seem strangely fascinated by their mobiles, so I stand up.
    â€œI’m there,” I say.
    It’s busy as we try to get served. The floor of the hall is polished wood, but there’s carpet near the bar area. It’s so sticky, every time my foot comes off the ground it makes a noise like someone unfastening a piece of Velcro. Or it would do if I could hear anything above the sound of Agadoo . International DJ Tony Curtis has started his set. I don’t think it’s going to be cutting-edge stuff.
    George is the tallest bloke in the room and he stands out a mile, so it’s not long before we’ve got someone’s attention. I’m a bit nervous about us being asked our age, but not a lot. The White Thunderbolt has taken the edge right off my anxiety.
    â€œFour pints of Carling,” George says.
    The barmaid is a middle-aged woman in a sleeveless white top. She’s got a Taz tattoo on her upper arm and blonde permed hair tied in a bunch on top of her head. She doesn’t even bother to look up. She just pours the drinks, takes George’s money and hands him his change.
    George looks at me and winks. He hands me two pints and gets the other two himself.
    We weave back to our table and sit down.
    Robbie picks up his pint.
    â€œAny problems?”
    â€œPiece of cake,” George says. “Two pound sixty-five a pint, mind you.”
    I look across at Tony Curtis’s DJ booth. It’s like a picnic table with an awning over the top, spray-painted black. There are two signs like car numberplates screwed to the front.
    INTERNATIONAL DJ
    TONY CURTIS
    Two sets of multicoloured disco lights are twirling on either side. Tony is a fat bloke with spiky hair, wearing a white Mens’ Health T-shirt. One of those ones they give away free when you take out a subscription. His beer gut is hanging out underneath, and every now and then he tries to shrug the T-shirt down so less flesh is on show. Agadoo is finished, and Tony is giving a big shout out to the Kettering Posse.
    Dylan pulls a face.
    â€œWhat makes him an International DJ?”
    â€œHe once went on a day trip to Calais,” I say.
    Tony Curtis’s DJ set goes on for the next twenty minutes. It’s a shocker. The Birdie Song . Oops Upside Your Head . The Lion Sleeps Tonight . Eighties hell. When he wants to get right up to the minute, he puts on Livin la Vida Loca . It’s not only the Kettering Posse he’s giving a big shout out to. It’s the Leicester Boys and the Colchester Crew.
    I nudge Robbie.
    â€œGo and get him to play something for the Letchford Lads. See if he’s got any Westlife.”
    Robbie grins.
    It’s getting hot in the Family Entertainment Centre. The whole room is packed out now. The only fresh air is getting in through some little windows high up along the side walls, and a couple of skylights. Me and George have another trip to the bar to get the drinks in. Dylan’s paying this time. As I sink into my chair, I can feel sweat trickling down my sides. I slide my phone open. Coming up to half past nine.
    Tony Curtis fades out the last few bars of Is This the Way to Amarillo? His disco lights have stopped twirling. The three people on the dance floor shuffle back to their tables.
    We all look at one another. Something’s about to happen.
    â€œOkay, you wacky Wonderlanders,” Tony says, voice rising to build up the excitement. “We’re going to have a change of pace now. I’m sure you’re going to love this. It’s our host with the most, TV favourite, our very own VIC WHITLEY!”
    The room is plunged into complete darkness, then the maroon curtains roll back and Vic Whitley bounds onto the stage. I