I once left a letter for Tracey Emin behind the bar of her local, the Golden Heart, in Spitalfields, London. It was after I saw her film about auditioning in Margate for the British Disco Dance Championship, the crowd chanting “slag” when she began her routine. I knew as well as Tracey why the audience was afraid. Dancing tells them something about how you will fuck and fight.
You could get into Turn Ups nightclub in 1980s Sheffield if you were 15, but only if the bouncers fancied you. If they did, you could be wearing whatever you liked: jodhpurs, Prince of Wales check suits; you could even be carrying a walking cane. We weren’t fully out of the shadow of A Clockwork Orange, and so found ourselves getting away with a tasteless mix of aristo and militaria. It would be nearly ten years until Bikini Kill released “Rebel Girl”, but we already lived by the lines: “That girl thinks she’s the queen of the neighbourhood/I got news for you, she is”.
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