YEARS ago, back in the days of my youth, no weekend would be complete without a visit to the local dance hall.

Every provincial town had at least one and some of the larger cities could boast several chandelier-gilded caverns of delight.

Those of you who were born just after the Second World War will undoubtedly be able to recall many a magic moment spent in suitably dimmed lights as a suited beat group pounded out the hits of the day.

At some stage during the proceedings, the obligatory fight would break out near the stage.

It was always in that vicinity, so keeping out of such confrontations was simple – avoid this area like the plague and never make eye contact with someone with pig eyes in a cheap suit.

The worst injury sustained in such confrontations was probably a bloody nose. In those days, youths managed to fight without wanting to kill each other and there was certainly no kicking of the head area, definitely one of the most disturbing trends of recent years.

The last fight in which I was involved concerned the form bully who pushed his luck just too far one sunny day behind the pavilion. Since those days, I have known a few dodgy moments, but have nevertheless reached the age of 60 without being obliged to defend myself.

This unbroken run of peace in my time was severely tested the other day when I had the supreme misfortune to fall foul of one the most deranged individuals I have encountered for many a long year.

I had just turned into Portland Street, Diglis, Worcester, and been obliged to momentarily walk on the road because of building work.

This manoeuvre delayed a motorist by a nano-second and as a result of my misdemeanour, he went completely crazy – even offering to “knock me out,” which I took to be a novel threat not to mention a tad optimistic. Suffice to say, a man of my age doesn’t expect such invitations. And so I bade psycho-man farewell and continued on my way to Hylton Road… safe in the knowledge that I had survived yet another day in out-of-control Britain.