So I live two blocks away from this club called Decodance. Decodance only plays 80s music. I grew up in the 80s. And yet, despite how you'd think those three facts would combine to make me a regular, I had, until a few nights ago, never been to Decodance.

Shocking, I know. I mean what kind of 80s disciple am I? My excuse was always that I have young kids who wake me at 6am. But deep down, I know that is not the real reason. The real reason is I am a slacker. No, wait, that was the 90s. Anyway, a while ago, my wife and I agreed that we would go to Decodance at least once while we were still living in this house. Then we shook hands and high-fived to make the deal sacrosanct. And then we actually arranged to go with some friends.

I was quite amped, I must say. Mainly because I haven't been to a disco - I mean night club - in about a decade. And I haven't been to the 80s in about three. I didn't wear shoulder pads or anything, but like I said, I was pretty excited. Then, at the door, I even got one of those stamps that light up under fluorescent lights when you flash them to the bouncer to show him you've already paid your entrance fee and he has to let you in. Then, almost as soon as we were inside the club, two blonde girls with short skirts and generous cleavages offered me something called a Black Widow, which is toffee vodka I think, which I'm pretty sure didn't exist in the 80s, and which really didn't appeal to me. 

My friend had one, though, and watching him drink it was a little disappointing. There was no ritual. Firstly, where were the holsters those tequila girls used to keep their bottles in? Secondly, aren't the girls supposed to make you bend over backwards below their generous cleavages so they can pour the stuff down your throat while you look up at their generous cleavages? That didn't happen.

Then I realised that although a lot of 80s music is truly awesome and timeless to listen to, it really is quite difficult to dance to, especially if you want to avoid making a fool of yourself. Standing around with my hands in my pockets, looking awkwardly at the empty dance floor, I remembered how, the afternoon before one of my first disco parties, I practiced dancing to Kool and The Gang's "Get Down On It" in my bedroom. Then, at the actual disco party I asked one of the pretty girls to dance with me, and she agreed, which was awesome, but when I went public with the dance I'd practiced she said she wouldn't dance with me if I danced like that. Which wasn't awesome.

But then they started playing songs I haven't heard for twenty years. They played The Human League, and Blondie, and Nena, and Joan Jett, and Frankie Goes To Hollywood, and Blancmange, and for large parts of the next two hours I basked in the glow of a time when I had zits, a breaking voice, a concave stomach, crushes, irreplaceable friendships, a Sony Walkman, and the coolest white Puma sneakers ever to grace the planet.

I recommend nostalgia to anyone. It's one of life's most underrated pleasures.