Waltzer

Seventies wastelands becoming arenas of neon and complete with the smell of onions and the sound of motors, generators and extremely loud glam through tinny speakers is an important memory for me. The travelling funfair visits two or three times a year and housing schemes come alive with the joys of sliding and swirling in gaudy running lights and spray paint backdrops. King in this arena is the Waltzer—dark and wavy undercover—just round the corner where the bad girls stand staring at the guys who spin the cars all blue eyeshadow and chewing gum nodding to androgynous Bowie and Ronson and Sweet—losing the downbeat in the screams and swirls and turns…

—Gordon McPherson