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Last updated on 1 October, 2019 at 4:47 PM
The Bristol Nurse’s Home Dance circa 1959
by Nobby Clarke
“I can’t remember who first suggested we should go to the nurse’s dance at the nurse’s home in Bristol but it wasn’t me. Still, I was soon persuaded by the talk of young girls with great anatomical knowledge and absolutely no morals whatsoever. My sturdy steed, a 1937 Standard 10 in British Racing rust could be the tart trap ‘Trog’ Gillot (who sold it to me for 35 quid) promised it was and I would, with any luck, carve a first notch in the filthy leather of the sagging rear seat. This illegal car was parked in a barn at the rear of Locking and contained my illegal powder blue suit (18 guineas hand made in Wardour Street).
“The car wouldn’t start and the suit was damp – the trousers had green mould growing on them. For some reason nobody wanted to travel in the opulent luxury of my car but had crammed into Tim Baldwin’s (85th) tatty one and a half litre Jaguar also parked in the barn. It took several minutes of sweaty swinging of the starting handle before the powerful 1000cc side valve burst into stuttering life firing on one cylinder as usual. In convoy we set off.
“The dance was well under way when we arrived and the nurses all started cheering which quickly died away as we filed in. I started asking girls for dances but got refused until a pleasant looking plump girl said yes. We jived, we waltzed, we quickstepped. My suit dried out. At one point I managed to get a look down the front of her dress. She was wearing a BLACK BRA!!! Oh thank you God. Black underwear in those days meant one thing. Loose morals. At least that what I had been told (By my dad!!).
“I engaged her in witty sophisticated conversation and found out she lived near Weston and was going home on the train after the dance. Would you like a lift, said I. Ooh that would be nice, said she. She looked a bit taken aback by the car but once I’d tied the string that stopped the door flying open she seemed to accept her fate. We set off. She asked me what I did. National Service RAF Locking said I. Oh that’s a coincidence, said she. My dad’s a Flight Sergeant at Locking. I nearly drove into the nearest ditch. ‘He’s on the Apprentice wing so I don’t expect you know him, P…e is his name. By the way what’s your name?’ ‘Roy O’Connell said I.”’
“Strangely enough I heard no more about this though Roy said Flt Sgt. ‘F….r P…c’ had given him some strange looks."