We taped Footloose before christmas, and this evening, we finally got round to watching it. It’s not actually that we had better things to do than watch Footloose, but that we have a rolling collection of 18 films that we have built up over the last few months, and tonight it seemed like the right one to watch.
Actually, we needed the tape for The Breakfast Club; but we enjoyed it so much, despite ourselves, that we declared it a keeper, and gave it a label of its own.
I was 13 when Footloose first came out; a time of school discos and suede ankle boots, and chicken races with tractors were things we could only aspire to, in the arable wastelands around Armpit. Like Ren McCormack, I was the new kid in town, and oh boy, did I want to dance.
Actually, I didn’t want to dance; I just wanted to go back where we came from, but that’s another story that I’ve already bored you with. Not that where we came from was any better for me, socially. In fact, at least the kids at the new school didn’t know that I had once asked who Simon Le Bon was.
The lesson we can all take away from this is that the bible can be used to prove god wrong.