HIGHLIGHT: When Cherry met Tinchy Stryder at the Onyx Rooms.

LET’S all put our shot glasses down and bow our heads for a moment of silence.

For it is with great sadness that I announce I am leaving the Advertiser.

I am leaving the clubbers of this town to debate the issues of the partying world without me as I am heading to the Smoke, aka London, to show those southern fairies how it is done.

Never fear my party animals, I will be representing the North with my half Mancunian and half Yorkshire accent which has led many Londoners to stop me in a street to ask the same question: “Where you from?”

“I live in Yorkshire, not Outer Mongolia,” I have often replied.

And while Rotherham may only be known for being the arch enemy of Jamie Oliver’s healthy eating regime, I will inform all those Southerners that life in the borough involves excessive partying that could put them all to shame.

During my time as clubbing columnist, I have come to respect the party animals of the town who turn out in force every week to support their local night clubs.

Every Monday morning when I’ve sat at my desk, I have been greeted with an array of photographs which have been taken on the Rotherham clubbing scene and were guaranteed to have me chuckling into my cup of tea.

It could only be in Rotherham that you were going to see the lead singer of Pendulum jumping into the crowd and surfing along the party crew who had turned out in force to see the legendary drum and bass act.

And Rotherham clubbers have shown that they are ready to show some love to the UK urban scene by packing out the nightclubs to see the likes of N-Dubz, DJ Ironik and Tinchy Stryder who have performed intimate gigs in the town.

It is only with the support of clubbers, who are willing to give such acts a fighting chance, that they have become a dominant force on the UK music world—topping the charts with their catchy tunes.

What I have particularly found to be positive about the Rotherham clubbing scene is that it will not cost you an arm and a leg to have a good night out.

The nightclubs tend to keep the entry prices fairly low and there are some great drinks offers floating about around the town which has meant that hard-pressed clubbers have not been forced to give up their partying in the credit crunch.

Only Rotherham has been able to offer clubbers, both young and old, the chance to see the winners of Britain’s Got Talent, Diversity, performance live for less than a tenner.

Tickets to watch the BGT live tour would have set you back at least 30 quid.

Now I’ve been forced to defend Rotherham to many clubbers who turn their nose up at its party scene and migrate over the Parkway or down the M1 to nightclubs in Sheffield and Leeds.

And I will admit that I have found that several of the nights offered by the Rotherham clubs tend to blend into one—with a mix of commercial dance and R n B tunes to satisfy the masses.

But my latest experience on the Sheffield party scene found that its main nightclub was no better and with a £6 entry fee and a dance floor that was pretty empty I wondered why I had bothered.

The Rotherham clubbing scene doesn’t pretend to be anything that it isn’t.

What you see is what you get which is a fun night out with a bit of booze and some party tunes.

So I encourage all of the Rotherham clubbers to continue on with their party ways and build up a bank of fabulous memories which you will be able to look back on in fondness.

For there may come a time when the party vibe will no longer be flowing in your life so it’s a case of skanking out while you can.

Party hard people.

The Metropolitan Police

I USUALLY have a lot of respect for the police.

I think it is a brave decision to take on a job in which you fight against the dregs of society and enforce the law so that respectable citizens of this country can get on with their lives.

Being a police officer can’t be an easy job, especially when you’ve got criminals determined to flout the law and go to extreme measures which include violence and intimidation.

And I have always had a positive experience of my time with police officers and will defend their actions to those of my acquaintances who have a certain distaste for the po-po.

That was until I went to London for the Notting Hill Carnival.

Now I can fully appreciate that it is not your typical every day experience, with more than two million people passing through the West London district over the two-day event.

With the carnival having a reputation for attracting troublemakers, the Metropolitan Police have the difficult task of bringing in extra resources to cope with the demand.

And I can imagine that many officers must dread being given their rota for the August bank holiday to see they have been positioned in the most crazy of sound systems.

But for the majority of visitors it is a celebration of music and diversity, and gives people the chance to get together for a massive street party.

And as a result, I do expect the police to offer assistance to those who generally need their help.

After all that is their job.

I got caught up in the middle of a stampede through one street and had blood pouring down my foot after stepping onto a glass bottle when my shoe got temporarily lost among the crowd.

Now I’m not a wuss and it didn’t particularly hurt, so all I needed was a bit of tissue and a plaster to sort out the wound before I could head back to my favourite party spot.

The scene reminded me of The Good Samaritan Bible story because three police officers failed to help me out, despite asking for their assistance and showing them my injury.

“Oh there is a first aider somewhere around,” said one while walking off in the opposite direction.

“Walk down there and I’m sure you’ll find something,” said another.

It took a kind girl with a box of wipes and a tattooist with a plaster before I was safely strapped up and could rejoin the carnival.

But that wasn’t what particularly bothered me.

What really riled me up was seeing a group of four lads run up to an officer who was policing one sound system to inform him that a fight had broke out nearby.

“Nothing to do with us,” he said. “It’s the security’s job to deal with that.

“We only step in if something serious happens.”

I thought he was joking. But he basically explained that unless someone got shot or stabbed the police were staying out of it.

I was completely baffled.

By not stepping in at the earliest opportunity, the violence was only going to escalate.

If gang members know that the police aren’t going to step in when the fists are being thrown, then they won’t hesitate to take it to the next level and bring out the guns and knives.

And while I don’t expect the police to take unnecessary risks, what I do expect is for them to use their skills to stop trouble at the earliest opportunity and help those who ask for it.

If they fail to do that then they may as well have not be there at all.

An unwilling policeman is about as much use as an absent one.

MASS ENJOYMENT: Crowds get into the party spirit

I MIGHT be five years past the point where I could officially call myself a teenager, but I’m not old and grey just yet so I think it is still safe to class myself as a “young person”.

While I do own a pair of slippers and a dressing gown, it has not yet got to the point where I am eligible for a free bus pass or take pleasure in walking trips around the Peak District.

My delights in life don’t stretch much further than the clubbing scene so when I was offered the chance to spend a weekend partying in Rotterdam, Holland, I jumped at the chance.

While the city may not traditionally be known for its party lifestyle, after all it’s competing with its neighbour Amsterdam to attract the young ‘uns, it has dedicated a huge amount of time and money into catering for the younger generation.

Rotterdam was officially given the title of European Youth Capital for 2009 and the summer was dedicated to providing young people with a chance to showcase their talents.

LOTS OF ENERGY: International stars N.E.R.D in full flight.

The focus on teenagers often revolves around negative issues, such as knife crime and binge drinking, so it was encouraging to see that Rotterdam had embrace youth culture and turned it into a positive experience.

If you’re an old fuddy-duddy who hates music festivals, with their loud music and endless amounts of booze and fatty food, then you would do well to stay away from Rotterdam.

This city is for the party animals…for a year at least.

The summer line-up was crazy and featured five weeks of pure partying which was all about “da youth”.

My weekend fell during the Your World Music Festival and the TMF Awards Festival which boasted performances from international stars including N.E.R.D and The Black Eyed Peas.

TOP BAND: The Black Eyed Peas impressed visitors.

Young people were offered the chance to take part in the planning of the Your World Music Festival – from programming and producing to performing on stage.

There was a really positive atmosphere that radiated around the festival and showed that the young people were not out to make trouble, but to socialise and have fun.

It was clear that Rotterdam was no one trick pony which had thrown loads of money at the promotion of the younger generation, who would be forgotten about once it was forced to give up its youth capital status.

With 100,000 young people living and working in the city, it catered for the youth with stylish shops and pretty cafs which makes it appealing whatever time of year.

While culture was not high on the agenda for me, I did manage to get a flavour of its history with a bike tour around the city with visits to the Euromast and the cube houses, which looked like they had just been plucked out of a futuristic sci-fi movie.

UNUSUAL: The impressive cube properties.

And with Rotterdam being famous for its port, I sat for an hour on a boat which travelled up and down the river showing me endless numbers of cranes and boxes.

Hmm….don’t do this trip after a night out on the town. Trust me.

What was clearly evident during my weekend in Rotterdam was that it came across as a modern city, the perfect place to celebrate your youth.

I was spoilt for choice with the variety of bars and clubs on offer which catered for every taste, from the R n B vibes to the hard trance tunes.

I had a preconception that Rotterdam would be behind with the times, but I was surprised by how relevant the music scene was to the clubs I go to back in England.

But what was even more astonishing was how the city’s leaders had moved further ahead by dedicating an entire summer to catering for the younger generation.

I await with eager anticipation for that attitude to cross the shores and hit the UK.

Cherry flew from Manchester to Amsterdam (Schiphol) with KLM Royal Dutch Airlines and stayed two nights at the Hotel Golden Tulip in the centre of Rotterdam. From Schiphol airport a direct train to Rotterdam takes around 50 minutes.

Students have got it good...and they know it.

WHEN I was a student, I loved all students.

We were giddy, irresponsible, received great discounts and had all week to party because classes often did not start until noon, which gave us enough sleep time to deal with hangovers.

Now I’m not a student, I hate all students.

They are giddy, irresponsible, cheapskates and have the luxury of having every night of the week to party while us workers are relegated to the weekends, unless we have the ability to survive on no sleep.

Students moan that they are hard done by with tuition fees and loans forcing them to live on beans on toast and buy Glen’s Vodka instead of Absolut.

But students have got it good and they know it too.

Students tell you that they are skint so that they can scrounge an extra 20 quid of their parents, which ultimately will be spent on clubbing and not that must-have text book.

While students may moan that they have to survive on peanuts, they have the advantage of paying ridiculously low prices on a clubbing night, which more than makes up for their diminishing bank balances.

As a student you would often catch me out on the clubbing scene four nights a week and never did I stop to think whether I could actually afford to be involved in such a heavy party vibe.

And I wasn’t relying on handouts from my parents.

It was just me, my student loan and a couple of extra quid I’d saved from working in my local supermarket before starting my university degree.

But with the crazy deals that were splashed around during the weeknights for the equally crazy students, it would have been wrong not to take advantage while I could.

With 90p drinks and a £3 entry to a club, I could go out with 20 quid and still have change for a bacon butty in the morning.

And there was student night to satisfy all tastes, which helped to satisfy the groups of friends who had nothing in common, apart from the fact that they had been randomly selected to live together in university halls.

The boys wearing their skinny jeans and mopped hair could party on down in the indie room, while the girls with their French Connection shoes and fake Louis Vuitton bags had the pop room to enjoy.

But the students all had one ultimate goal. To get out and party as much as they could.

I must admit that I am probably quite bitter.

My days of partying during the week are long gone.

If there was an exam which required you to function on three hours kip I would fail miserably.

Even the powers of Red Bull would not be able to help me achieve a pass rate.

And while I scratched off the expiry date on my old student card, it looks so dated I cannot reasonably expect any doorman with a pair of eyes to believe that I’m still at university.

Instead, I have to be content with the fact that I can only party two nights a week when the prices get inflated by 75 per cent and the price of the club entry more than doubles.

It’s a change which I’m still getting used to.

So I vent my anger on all the students out there who have the luxury of clubbing whenever they want and can do so with little inconvenience to their bank balance or working life.

But I do urge all students to take full advantage of their time in education because it offers a great clubbing experience which has an expiry date.

When you enter the working world you’ll feel exactly the same as me.

Jealous.

Performers at the Notting Hill Carnival

ONE of the highlights of my summer is taking a trip to our capital for the infamous Notting Hill Carnival which takes place over the August Bank Holiday weekend.

I was introduced to the celebration around three years ago after reading about it in a magazine while I was sat drinking English breakfast tea in my local Starbucks.

I love a good party and the Notting Hill Carnival seemed like the perfect way to spend a weekend in a buzzing atmosphere where a crowd is united to celebrate diversity.

It has become a military operation to prepare my trip to London.

“Train or car? Hotel or kipping at a friend’s house? Coat or cardigan?” are all questions that need answering weeks before I embark on the 300 mile journey to the carnival.

This year I started my research early and while I was surfing the net, finding out where were the best after-parties, I came across the Kensington and Chelsea council website.

I read up on their advice and information regarding the carnival, which is now in its 43rd year, and I was saddened by the restrictions being placed on the event in a bid to make it “safe”.

One of the most significant changes has been the time the carnival starts, which has been moved to the earlier time of 9am, in a bid to get the float procession over before it gets dark.

And a noise restriction has been placed on the various sound systems which pump out the carnival tunes around Notting Hill—offering visitors the chance to be part of a massive street party.

The council claims that they have curbed the celebrations for 2009 in a bid to stop trouble-makers coming out at night and spoiling the party for the majority of carnival revellers.

But to me this is just a classic example of why Britain is considered a nanny state with local councils stepping in to hold the hands of its residents, to make sure they don’t get too giddy.

It is the kill joy council who is spoiling the event for 2009.

The Notting Hill Carnival has been known for attracting trouble in past years as some wannabe gangsters see it as the perfect opportunity to go out and brap their postcode rivals.

But visitors to the carnival are well aware that putting 500,000 people in one area may bring with it dangers and it should be up them whether they take the risk.

You don’t stop pedestrians from crossing the road just because they may get hit by a drunk driver.

I am fully aware that councils have a responsibility to keep their residents safe and while I’m at the carnival I am reassured by the police presence that helps the event run smoothly.

However, I take objection to being told that the music should be at a certain level so my ear drums are safe, or that the event should finish before dark so I’m not confronted by trouble.

Notting Hill Carnival is a two-day event which happens once a year and should be allowed to go ahead in all its glory as a celebration of Britain’s cultural diversity.

By limiting the fun it allows the trouble makers to impact on my life by stopping me from enjoying the event to the maximum.

A carnival curfew will not stop the law flouters from taking a pop at their gangster rivals.

If they’re willing to carry a gun, they’re willing to use it.

Carnival or no carnival.

RAVING: Advertiser reporter Cherry Wilson on holiday in Cyprus.

I need some more time off.

I’m feeling very tragic right now and am considering going to my doctor as my illness isn’t getting better.

I need to be confined to my bed for at least a week, with the Sky remote in one hand and a giant cinema-style bag of Galaxy Minstrels in the other, to give my mind and body time to recover.

No it’s not swine flu, it’s something equally as deadly.

Post-holiday depression.

My symptoms are as follows:

Heart palpitations from too much Red Bull, the inability to stop sing Gracious K’s Migraine Skank, a sinking feeling in my stomach when driving around gloomy England, and a warped body clock which keeps me up till 4am and fails to respond to a 7am alarm.

I’m convinced that my illness should be medically recognised and the pharmaceutical companies should take the time to create a pill to relieve my traumatising symptoms.

After a week of pure heaven in Cyprus I stepped off the aeroplane at 2am in the morning and it hit me like taking a double shot of Tequila.

It was the first time in seven days I was forced to pull on my pink cardigan and as I put on arm through the hole to shield me from the harsh English wind, I started to slip into the depression.

I only had one question going round and round in my head: WHY AM I BACK?

I couldn’t think of one logical reason at that moment in time and I’m still struggling.

OK I might have a job to go back to that enables me to afford the 20 euro club entry fee and the 7 euro price tag that was slapped on a double vodka and lemonade in the Cypriot bars.

And I did my best to take comfort in the fact that the holiday season doesn’t extend all year round and most of my new holiday buddies would be returning to England at some point to reminisce over the good times.

And while I’m trying my best to deal with the post-holiday depression I fear that it may take a while.

Holidays are fabulous because they give you that chance to leave behind your everyday routine and enjoy a week of pure indulgence.

But the come-down you feel when you return from a week of eating, drinking, relaxing on the beach and then partying at night is enough to break the hardest of ravers.

The holiday bubble of love bursts as soon as you touch down on home ground and then the depression sets in.

My loyal friends are trying to help me get through the pain and keep saying to me: “Well at least you’ve had a holiday,” which is a point that I’m trying to push to the forefront of my mind.

I shouldn’t be sorry for what I’ve lost, but be thankful for what I had.

And through the joys of Facebook I can keep the holiday vibe flowing with photo albums and links to the UK Funky tunes that signified what my week abroad was all about.

My post-holiday depression is set to last for a while longer yet.

But I will snap out of it and take comfort in the fact that while the medical world may not have come up with a nice pill to relieve the symptoms, I know of a way that just might help me get over it.

Booking another holiday.

CLEARED: Steven Gerrard

THE Steven Gerrard court case has once again put the spotlight on footballers’ responsibility to watch what they do when out and about.

While the Liverpool captain was cleared of the affray charges against him when a jury accepted his claim of self-defence, Gerrard did admit punching a DJ three times.

And his appearance showed once again that players need to be on their best behaviour in public places.

The antics I’ve seen with my own two eyes just goes to prove that the majority of footballers, whether they’re worth 80 million quid or 80 quid, consider themselves to be way more special than your ordinary clubber.

I mean, what else would possess a Championship player to eat a 50 note in front of a group of girls in a Rotherham nightclub simply because the money was meaningless to him?

Now, I won’t tar all footballers with the same brush because I have met ONE nice player while out on the clubbing scene, who was very humble and respectful of his lucky career.

But a lot of footballers are attention-seeking, wannabe celebrities who take their drunken behaviour to the extreme, simply because they feel they can get away with it.

I witnessed a group of players dancing on the plush leather seats in a nightclub and demanding to be served at the bar first because they played for the local team.

The clich line of “Do you know who I am?” was bandied around like there was no tomorrow.

I have nothing against footballers going out clubbing and generally having a good time because, like the rest of us, they are simply human beings.

And it’s fair to say that there will be times when they get into a confrontational situation which is unavoidable.

But there is no excuse for urinating on a dance floor (John Terry), pushing clubbers out of the way because you have lost a diamond ring (Anton Ferdinand), or stubbing a cigarette in a team mate’s eye during a boozy night out (Joey Barton).

Footballers are in a privileged position which offers them the luxury of celebrity status and a huge pot of cash because their fans turn out every week to support their team.

With that privilege comes responsibility which they should try their hardest to live up to, simply out of respect for the people who have allowed them to earn a living.

The football fans who have to put up with their antics on and off the pitch.

Gossip singer Beth Ditto

A NIGHT out clubbing wasn’t on the agenda for me at the weekend.

I decided to be slightly sensible and save my energy and my pennies for my extreme week of partying in Cyprus which starts on Sunday.

So rather than grace the local clubbing scene with my presence I chained myself to the kitchen and mopped the floor while listening to a few tunes on my ipod.

My clubbing restraint meant that I had to get my entertainment and music fix from another source, so I spent a few hours in the company of my TV set.

Channel 4 was playing host to the T4 On the Beach festival which was held at Weston-super-Mare on Sunday and featured a whole host of music acts from DJ Ironik to The Enemy.

I am the first to admit that I am very picky about my music so, unless I can guarantee that a line-up is going to cater for my taste, you won’t see me braving the English outdoors at a festival.

So it was a joy to watch the event from the comfort of my own settee—swapping the rain, dirty burgers and bottles of lager for a duvet, a couple of crumpets and a nice cup of tea.

Generally I was quite impressed with the line-up as it had a nice mix of music acts and genres to cater for most festival fans.

When Tinchy Stryder performed in Rotherham last month he obviously had an impact on more than just the young clubbers who turned out in their hundreds to see the Star In The Hood.

It was quite amusing for me to receive a text from a work colleague who will admit she isn’t really “down der wiv da kids” to tell me the Number 1 star was on stage.

Yeah he did a good job….but the Rotherham clubbers got more for their money I can assure you.

American band Gossip were always guaranteed to have stage presence with their lead singer Beth Ditto who tips the scales at 15 stone, which led one of my friends to comment: “How fat was that bird on stage?”

Well even though I’m not a huge fan of the band’s sound, I would much rather see her rolls of fat bouncing around on stage instead of the skeletons that are the girls from The Saturdays.

At least Beth can hold a tune which, when performing to 45,000 people, is a talent you really should possess.

Listening to the girls screech through their cheesy songs was very painful to my ears….and I had the sound on low as well.

Love must be shown to the boys of JLS who scored a number one hit with their song Beat Again this week and performed their jazzy routine on stage to adoring fans.

But for me the highlight had to be Peter Andre tumbling off the stage during a performance of his latest single Behind Closed Doors—an obvious reference to his recent split with fame-obsessed glamour model wife Katie Price.

And yeah I’m just going to have to put this out there….it is a TUNE.

I’m not ashamed. OK, it might be cheese on toast, but I appreciated the melody and whacked myself on Youtube to get another fix as soon as his performance was over.

What struck me about the festival was that although I wasn’t a huge fan of all the acts, the mix of interviews, performances and general foolery that we come to expect from T4 kept me well entertained for a least four hours.

The variety meant I didn’t get too bored and it opened my eyes to several music acts I may never have listened to if they hadn’t been teamed up on a stage with the mighty N-Dubz.

And it beats watching the millionth rerun of the Friends series any day.

Advertiser reporter Cherry Wilson tombstoning off a cliff top in Cyprus.

THE holiday season has officially arrived and along with the sun, sea and sand comes another ‘s’ that brings with it some seriously hidden dangers…stupidity.

It seems that all rationale goes out of the window when clubbers embark on their all important break in the sun at the top partying destinations across the world.

My Facebook news feed has been littered with friends on their holiday countdown with the favourites being Ibiza in Spain, Ayia Napa in Cyprus, Malia and Zante in Greece.

The exclamation marks on the “10 days to go!!!!!!!!!!” status updates reveal the excitement as clubbers leave their troubles behind for a whole week dedicated to the party God.

And the saying “What happens on holiday, stays on holiday” gives party devils the licence to take their behaviour to the wildest level without thinking of the consequences.

Now partying in the UK isn’t without its dangers.

There have been some crazy stories from around Britain which indicate that too much booze in a excessive party environment can bring with it serious tragedy.

But on holiday everything is taken to the extreme. Too much food, too much booze, too much sun and too much sex.

You can let yourself go at a time when you don’t have to worry about the latest gas bill, your kid’s final school report or whether you’re going to be made redundant.

But the excitement of a holiday brings with it a sense of invincibility which can often have horrific consequences if you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time.

One of my favourite memories from my last summer break was having the guts to jump from the top of a cliff into the sea, in a game known as tombstoning.

But did I think about the news story I read about a teenager who will now spend the rest of his life confined to a wheelchair simply because he landed akwardly on his spine when doing the exact same thing?

No.

And how many girls have gone off to a hotel room with a gang of lads they had met just hours earlier simply because they had the same taste in music?

While it may be an entirely innocent movewith the group waiting for the sun to rise while discussing whether Tupac is a better rapper than Notorious B.I.G.if the boys had a more sinister motive it could be a different story.

But I think one of the scariest stories I have heard was from a friend who went away last year and found one of her mates standing on the edge of a cliff side after ignoring a warning barrier in the dark.

The young lad was so drunk he was unable to stop from wobbling and it was only a split second judgement, in which his friend grabbed his T shirt, that prevented him from plunging to his death.

So remember, the worse experience on holiday is to have that all important week spoiled simply because you were wrestling with your mate and stepped on a glass bottle.

After all, throwing shapes on the dance floor while you’ve got one of your feet in a cast is no fun.

By swapping the ‘s’ in stupidity for ‘s’ in safety, you’ll have a 2009 holiday to remember – for all the right reasons.

Jack and Jean Atkinson

JACK and Jean Atkinson are true legends on the clubbing scene.

The crazy couple, who have a combined age of 166, put all of the younger clubbers to shame by partying three nights a week in Rotherham.

They get down low, without needing to use a Zimmer frame, every Friday, Saturday and Sunday night at Liquid nightclub and never leave the party before 3am.

And the couple show their dedication to the clubbing cause by going the extra mile, well 60 to be more precise, by doing a round trip from Huddersfield to get their party fix.

When I first heard about the myth surrounding Jack and Jean I was slightly bemused.

I couldn’t even begin to imagine what marbles they must have floating around upstairs to make them want to party with clubbers young enough to be their grandchildren.

Was this a pathetic attempt for them to recapture their youth?

Or was I being so blinkered by stereotypes that I could not see outside of the clubbing box and realise that they simply wanted to have fun?

It’s obvious that Jack and Jean do things differently.

The couple met in 1945 when Royal Navy sailor Jack was with a friend at The Mound in Edinburgh and he was asked by a pretty 19-year-old whether he had a light.

Seven days later the love-stoned pair were engaged and within another eight days they were husband and wife.

That in itself is quite remarkable, if somewhat crazy, and only goes to show that even as teenagers they followed their hearts and not their heads.

So it comes as less of a surprise that after 64 years of marriage, the couple are still determined to live life to the full and take advantage of their days on this earth.

When I have informed other clubbers about Jack and Jean, I get asked the question: “Why do they do it?”

And the simple reply I have give is: “Why not?”

Their are no laws that say that the over-80s should give up clubbing and if I have the energy to still be busting out my dance moves at their age I will be very grateful.

After all, arthritis is no fun.

It seems to me that people are too quick to conform to the stereotypes that are forced upon us in this world and follow like sheep because they think that is what they should do.

I’ve heard clubbers my own age, who were true party devils in their teens, say to me: “I think I’m too old for this now” and I find it sad that they have come to think that way.

Now clubbing isn’t for everyone.

Some 20-somethings simply enjoy ordering a Indian takeaway and drinking a few beers in the comfort of their homes at the weekend.

But I can think of nothing more fun then being surrounded by friends and partying away to my favourite tunes.

And Jack and Jean have that same attitude, even though they are typically “supposed” to be cooped up in their homes, knitting scarves and watching repeats of The Darling Buds of May.

While I can’t say that I’ll still be frequenting the clubbing scene when I’m a grandma, the prospect isn’t so crazy when I look at jolly Jack and Jean.

Maybe some sprightly 23-year-old columnist will be writing about me in 60 years time, wondering whether I should still be frequenting the party scene at the ripe old age of 83.

If so, I will think back to this moment and remember the wise words of Jack and Jean: “The human life span is but a grain of sand, so make the most of it while one can.

“Life is for living, not sitting at home looking at four walls in later life, as our time here is measured.”

To read the full story about Jack and Jean Atkinson click here.