STEVE CANAVAN: Busting <span id="cke_bm_1225C" style="display:none"> </span>a few <span id="cke_bm_1280C" style="display:none"> </span>dodgy moves at my drunken re-uni-on<span id="cke_bm_1282C" style="display:none"> </span><span id="cke_bm_1269C" style="display:none"> </span><span id="cke_bm_1191S" style="display:none"> </span><span id="cke_bm_1191E" style="display:none"> </span>

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You might seen at A&E if you're a zombie from The Walking Dead...

CLIVE SMITH: More people in Portsmouth simply means even more problems

I’m not sure how it happened but, a couple of weekends ago, I – a respectable middle-aged man whose idea of a wild time is having an extra heaped spoonful of cocoa powder in my nightly hot chocolate – found myself in a nightclub at 3.45am.

How did this predicament come about, I hear you yelp? Well, the answer is that I was on a university reunion.

It is, apparently, 20 years since I graduated. I’d have happily let this pass without any frivolity or fuss but unfortunately my former classmates are less miserable than me and decided to arrange a get-together.

It was held in Preston, where we went to uni. I had, I should point out, options to study at Oxford and Cambridge too – in fact the vice-chancellor of the former begged me to come – but I opted for Preston on the basis it had a reliable bus service and an excellent Argos.

Initially the reunion was quite pleasant. It was nice to see people I’d not set eyes on in two decades and hugely satisfying to note that at least 75 per cent of them were bald. Some of the men were too.

The small talk was tricky though. I mean, it’s quite hard to sum up 20 years of your life in one exchange and you don’t know what people have been through.

For instance, I asked one girl – Jenny, dark hair, unsightly wart below her right eye, walked with a heavy limp – how things were. She sighed heavily and replied: 'Not so good. I had two children, lost one, my husband left me, I remarried, then we divorced, I’ve been made redundant and last week my mum died.'

‘Oh, that’s a shame’, I replied. ‘Weather’s picking up though, isn’t it?’

We met at 1pm. I’d hoped we’d begin by ordering coffee and having a bite to eat, perhaps followed by scones and cream, while talking about intellectual matters such as politics, the environment, and whether Bury FC might avoid relegation.

Instead one chap – who I suspect has done quite well for himself in the years since uni because he drove a sports car, casually mentioned having a swimming pool in his house, and was generally obnoxious – ordered three bottles of champagne, followed by pints of beer all round while everyone chanted ‘down in one’.

Never one able to withstand peer pressure, I felt compelled to join in.

This pattern continued throughout the day and so it was that I found myself slightly unsteady on my feet in the early hours of the morning in a nightclub.

It was – and I’m taking a positive view here – horrific.

There was ear-splittingly loud thumping music, flashing strobe lights, and lots of very young people either dancing, kissing or fighting – sometimes doing all three at the same time.

Everyone else in our party headed for the dancefloor but dancing is, like knitting or breast-feeding, a skill I’ve never possessed.

I stood sort of tapping my foot and nodding my head, swaying slightly, and occasionally jabbing out my left arm. I thought I looked quite cool, until a member of staff walked over and asked if I was having a cardiac arrest.

The most amusing moment came when I was – and bear in mind I’m 41, married, with greying hair and bigger bags than Sainsbury’s – propositioned by a girl who looked like she was taking her GCSEs.

She was wearing a top that made only the vaguest of attempts to cover her bra and a skirt so short she needn’t have bothered.

She leaned towards me, close enough for me to detect she’d had a substantial amount of garlic for tea, and asked romantically: 'Do you wanna snog?'

‘I beg your pardon?’ I said, part shocked, part convinced I’d misheard her through the relentless screeching music.

'Me and you. Do you wanna snog?' she repeated, giving me a wink that she presumably thought seductive but to me looked like she had a slight nervous tick.

I panicked. A curt 'no' would have been rude – it would suggest I didn’t find her attractive – so I needed a viable excuse.

'Erm, I would do,' I said. 'But I’ve got a serious gum complaint and the doctors say it’s very contagious.'

She gave me a funny look, walked on to the next bloke, and within seconds was sticking her tongue down his throat.

Finally, after several hours of listening to terrible music and watching teenage boys punch each other in the face – I witnessed five different people actually topple to the floor because they were so drunk, four of them were on our reunion – we staggered out and called it a night.

I got to bed at 5.45am and woke three hours later with a head throbbing so much that, for a moment, I was convinced there was someone playing drums at the foot of the bed.

Next time a reunion is suggested, I’ll make sure I’m out of the country.