This is a repost, but I think it bears retelling:
I was just 13, and my French exchange student chum was - in my eyes, at least - unutterably cool. He liked U2, could name several other bands, didn't smile when he had his photo taken, and could dance - boy could he dance! I could just about move from foot to foot, looking embarassed. He could spin 'round and do the robot and everything.

There was to be a disco in our little Somerset village hall, and we were allowed to go to it - oh joy! There would be, I told him, girls there. He just shrugged Gallically, and I said that we could probably get some cider as well, at which he shrugged, Gallically.

We got there, and the DJ was at the other end of the empty hall, the music was pumping, the bass line thumping, the lights were glowing and there were THREE girls, sitting at a table, near the DJ, near the speakers.

Well, obviously they needed chatting up, so we flipped a coin, and I lost.

Being English, and being a gentleman, I took a long swig of cider, and squared up to my duty.

I strode down the middle of the long hall towards the girls, the music pumping, the bass thumping, the lights glowing.

I got within shouting distance; the music pumping, the bass thumping ... I knew I was in shouting distance, because one of the girls turned 'round and shouted

"NO THANKS."
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 18 Oct 2013, 10:52, Reply)