It'll Be Fun! (Not if I have anything to do with it!)

We’ve got to check out Disco RanDan!” my friend’s voice squeaked with excitement.
“We do?” I hated the sound of it. ‘Disco’, ‘Ran’ and ‘Dan’ all sounded horrid.
“It’s only 200m from our hotel”.
“How convenient” I mumbled, wishing I hadn’t given her the website address of our hotel in Italy.

I hate clubbing. When all my friends were out bopping away years ago, I could be found on my sofa, scoffing egg foo yung, eagerly memorising all the items passing by on the Generation Game conveyor belt. Truthfully, I’ve been ready for middle age since I was about ten.

My friends tried hard to squeeze me into lycra and onto the dance floor but the fact I was prone to nodding off amidst all the snogging, still wearing my duffle coat, made me something of a party pooper. My love of comfortable shoes and warm clothes coupled with strict views on noise levels and reasonable toilet waiting times soon found me reunited with Brucey.

“We’re going” my friend said. “It’ll be fun”. I groaned inwardly and then outwardly before looking up to find myself caught in her most serious ‘single woman’ glare. Telling me, without words, that her future husband could be just a RanDan away and I, all selfishly betrothed, was not to stand in the way of continental romance.

I nodded in resignation, picturing the passive smoke clogging my bronchial tubes whilst cheesy Euro pop ravaged my ears and left me humming ‘Macarena’ for weeks. But it was a price I would have to pay. This was my friend who, despite everything I had shared with her about marriage, still insisted she wanted a man.

Having been to Italy before, I researched some useful phrases. ‘Vada prego via (Go away). I underlined it. ‘Penso che sia ora di partire’( I’m afraid we’ve got to leave now). I highlighted it in pink.

Now for clothing. Were velour tracksuits hip in Clubland? Probably not. I reached into the depths of the wardrobe, returning with an oldie but a goodie. Yes, the serious perfunctory blandness of my little black dress made it perfect. It said, ’I am no fun’. ‘No fun at all’.

One week later, I did an excellent impression of a girl disappointed when informed that RanDan had closed down. My friend’s lip drooped further when I pointed out we could now get in an excellent night’s reading.

After repacking the dress, I lay in my bunk feeling slightly sorry that she was in her No-Fun-pyjamas by 9.30pm. “We could try and find George Clooney’s villa tomorrow?” I suggested.

It worked wonders. Her book was launched across the room, instantly replaced by maps and a compass. I rechecked my phrase book, suspecting that tomorrow would require a new approach. George, sei stupendo – George, you look great. George, ecco il mio numero. George, here’ my number. George, posso baciarti...

Yes, I know he’s American but when in Lake Como!