Perhaps it were as our old men asserted

and National Service was not such a bad thing

or else we were typical Brits abroad -

insecure, neither in love nor at war.

For safety we carried both condoms and cutters,

arriving mob-handed we joined the queue singly

or latched on to others, to escape detection

and perfect the patter; a willing accomplice

increased the chances of squeezing past bouncers

and into the pants of someone - anyone

looked good after six pints of cider.

We’d reconnoitre, read the signals flashing

on globes and  strobes, find a mirror for a final comb

then it was all for one or each man on his own.

So much depended on timing and tactics,

on attacking before beauty grew ugly again

and fit bodies became fat once more;

on taking the slaps and knockbacks in your stride,

on the DJ playing Lady Marmalade

before everybody was Kung Fu Fighting.