The Marauding Turk

I stopped for a moment at the top of the stairs, surveying from the balcony the heaving mass of bodies in the hall of residence refrectory which, for one night only, had been transformed into the Freshers’ Disco.

Disco was perhaps a misnomer, for this was 1977 and Punk was jostling and snarling and shoving disco music out of popularity. The Stranglers competed with The Stylistics, The Boomtown Rats with the Bee Gees and then of course there were The Sex Pistols with their own tribute to Her Majesty in this her Jubilee year. In Upper Street, Islington, not a mile away from where we were, hopeful new bands were showcased every night at the Hope and Anchor.

I smiled to myself. There were easy pickings here, and so much choice. Shy girls-next-door, away from home for the first time. Naïve, unsure of themselves. Convent school girls; now they were always the worst, up for anything in their tight jeans and tighter sweaters. Small-town teen queens now little fish in a much bigger pool. All there waiting to be taken and given the experience of a lifetime at my hands. I’d already been eyeing up a few prospects over the last day or two but there was plenty of time, I’d be able to work my way through most of them by the end of term. The course I had chosen was equally attractive to men and women and the distribution was about 50:50. Fair enough. From what I’d seen of the other guys on the course there didn’t seem to be too much opposition although there was always the risk of predation from other courses where birds were in short supply, like civil engineering.

I descended the stairs slowly. Meaningfully. Looking to right and left until I located my target for tonight. Nothing too challenging to start with… There! Standing alone. Pale skin and long chestnut-coloured hair, looking awkward and out of place in her gingham dress and dark-rimmed glasses. I moved in.

”Dance with me?”

”Uh?”

”DANCE WITH ME!!”

It wasn’t a request, it was a command. And despite being shouted into my ear from a distance of about six inches it was still barely intelligible above the din of the crowded disco and it took a while for the message to penetrate the daydream I was enjoying. It took me completely by surprise; I hadn’t come to the disco to dance, I had come to stand by the wall, drink cheap gassy beer and watch the others dance in the hope that by the end of the evening I would be drunk enough to lose my inhibitions a little. And now, here was the girl who had caught my eye right from the first day physically dragging me out onto the floor and I was nowhere near drunk enough yet.

”I need you to rescue me” She explained. ”There’s a Turkish guy been pestering me all evening and I can’t get rid of him. I’ve just sent him off to buy me a drink but I want you to take me out for a dance until he gets back and then stay with me so he gets the message.”

Well, I’m not proud. I didn’t mind being used as a cock blocker by this damsel in distress. Anyway, she had a captivating smile and mischevious eyes and it was exhilerating to be dancing with her. Suddenly I had status in the room. I was with a girl.

The marauding Turk shot me a filthy glance as he handed over the drink but I stood my ground, moving in a little closer to my damsel. I suppose these days I might have been risking a glassing, but he retreated to find someone else. My job was completed, but we stayed together. Small talk was impossible so we just exchanged scraps of shouted conversation, nods and smiles. Eventually I thought I’d better offer her another drink.

”BEER, PLEASE” This was a relief. Beer was cheap.

”A HALF?”

”NO!!! A PINT. WHAT DO YOU THINK I AM?” She laughed.

So she wants to play tough. So be it. I’d show her how to handle a pint.

I struggled back from the bar with two thick plastic glasses full of plastic beer and handed her one. I raised my own to my lips and, without taking my eyes off her, necked the pint down in one.

So did she.

She finished first, threw her glass to the ground in triumph and stamped on it with a shout. It exploded with a most satisfying bang and her eyes blazed fire. She’d put me in my place and serve me right. She’d staked out her territory; she was all woman, but nobody’s doormat. She wanted to be treated like a lady but she was a match for any man. I was captivated.



At one o clock sharp the music stopped and the lights came on. But we were nowhere near ready to finish partying, my damsel and I, and our little group of firm friends of all of three days acquaintance. About a dozen of us crowded into one of the little study bedrooms on the seventh floor. Someone brought some beer. My damsel volunteered some digestive biscuits that she had in her room. I volunteered to help her fetch them.



We didn't return to the party that night. We held our own party for two in her room. In her bed.



Just Heather and I.



This post was inspired by Heather, jogging my memory of the events of that night over 30 years ago. If you want to know the full, unexpurgated and slightly embarassing details and a bit more of the background have a look here.