The Year 6 Disco was the high point of our youth

It’s all downhill after sherbert straws and S club 7

Ah, the year 6 disco.

For half a decade, we at primary school had waited for that fateful day when we would reach the cusp of adulthood and dance footloose upon the earth.

As we grew from four year old foetuses in Reception to double figured dilettantes in Year 5, the myths and legends grew as to what happened when the clock struck 7 o’clock and the doors to the local village hall were opened to let the pre-pubescent party animals flood on in.

These were DEFINITELY the cool kids on the dancefloor

Which absolute madman would have the guts to request a banger from the out of work DJ, brought in to play Pop Party hits for £10 an hour to a horde of  adoring eleven year olds?

Would that ‘will they-won’t they’ couple since nursery actually KISS before it all ended at 9pm?

And which cool cat would be wearing THAT fire branded shirt on the night, the shirt that signifed the wearer was the biggest, baddest BNOC this side of Cheltenham?

THAT shirt, more lit than the Great Fire of London #Year6History

On the eve of the event itself, all the mandemz you’d known since SATS would come round and gel themselves up with the finest gel cream pocket money could buy.

Sporting the latest in Nike footwear, you’d stick on your GAP shirt and your 10th birthday watch.

Buzzing on pres of fruit squash and Haribo Moams, you’d gather the squad together for a pre-game pic before getting your driver (usually mum, as dad was working late again) to drop you off at the venue. 

You’d slick back your hair, flip your collar up, add a pair of shutter shade sunglasses and swagger on through. There, you’d be met with the fulfillment of your wildest dreams.

The dancefloor would be rocking to the strains of “Dancing in the Moonlight” as a dozen classmates, off their face on sherbert straws and Robinson’s lemonade, busted out their finest moves learned in after school ballet class and early noughties Britney videos.

“Spot me some sherbert straws mate?”

Colours from the whirling 7 inch disco balls would reflect off the part-time teacher’s steel rimmed spectacles as she dispensed free hot dogs with cheap ASDA ketchup to those nutters who had peaked too soon and now had a craving for the infamous ‘munchies’.

There’d be fist bumps for the crew and a tentative “hey” for the gals; those there for the musical sesh would dive onto the dancefloor whilst the ‘cool kids’ hung round moodily on the edges, sucking on candy cigarettes and a can of lukewarm Diet Coke.

When this guy came on, you knew it was a partayy

As the night wore on, the lightweights would go cry in a corner about missing their mum as the pro dancers came out to play.

By 8 o’clock it would be the tunes for the big boys-  “Cotton Eyed Joe”, “Year 3000”, “Cha Cha Slide” and of course, “The Macarena”.

Success in perfecting these resulted in near universal acclaim and a free Freddo prize from the admiring DJ. You’d kill for that Freddo, the ultimate status symbol that validated all pre-teenage angst and assured you of a place in local primary school legend.

There’d always be that one kid spilling his Ribena

But as the party came to a close, and impatient, arriving parents began to loudly ask: “What time is this ending again sorry?”, you’d all come together for one final tune.

Once”Mambo No 5″ finished and “Reach for the Stars” began to play, all the lads, lasses, Sk8r bois and Barbie girls would come together to scream a hopeful rendition about youthful promise.

As you all hugged and smiled together, you’d be blissfully unaware that it was all downhill from here; that never again would an alcohol free night out be an option again.

For one glorious moment, it felt like you ruled the world; and if you didn’t, it was the world’s loss.

Deep down, aren’t we all just trying to relive the Year 6 Disco?

For now it’s all over. You can try and go to Pryzm on a cheesy Tuesday, try to listen to the old classics and dance the night away.

But it’ll never be the same as the first time you heard those tunes with your homeboys and felt like you ran the world like you ran the playground.

In the words of those great philosophers, Steps- “The feeling’s gone and you can’t go on. It’s tragedy.”