I’ve never had people dance to my singing before. But yesterday John and June took to the floor during my teatime music hall gig in Kentish Town. It was hosted by a remarkable organisation called North London Cares, which links young professionals with older folk so they can find out about each other’s lives. This might involve a gang of pensioners visiting a hipster branding agency in Shoreditch. Or, like yesterday, some twentysomethings watching aghast at the fruity innuendo of music hall classics – and experiencing the simple delight of a singalong. It was great fun.
They took to the floor when I played Dance the Night Away by the Mavericks. This works quite well on the banjolele. But two weeks later I was in Ilfracombe, wandering back to my b&b late on a Friday night, when I heard the same song booming live out of a hotel for coach parties. I went in. A half-hearted entertainer crooned to a backing track, while a group of elderly ladies swayed carefully on the floor. The blokes sat silently behind pints. I had a vision of where my career might lead.