MARCH 4TH, 1948. ELY, CARDIFF. SHAKIN' STEVENS IS BORN MICHAEL BARRATT, YOUNGEST OF ELEVEN CHILDREN. JUNE 9TH, 1954. ELY RACECOURSE YOUTHCLUB. THE MAN IN THE LOUD CHECK JACKET IS LOOKING PLEASED WITH HIMSELF. HIS THIN LIPS POSITIVELY QUIVER WITH SATISFACTION AND HIS NOSE GLOWS SLIGHTLY, AS IT OFTEN DOES ON THESE OCCASIONS. HE SURVEYS THE HALL, GIRLS DOWN ONE SIDE IN THEIR FLORAL PRINT DRESSES AND NEAT WHITE SOCKS AND BOYS DOWN THE OTHER, LOOKING ALMOST SMART FOR ONCE EVEN IF A CERTAIN ROWDY ELEMENT DOES INSIST ON WEARING THEIR BLACK TROUSERS RIDICULOUSLY NARROW.
Tonight they've covered the waltz quite adequately and soon he'd be introducing the art of the Foxtrot to their tender, unschooled sensibilities. His eyes flow casually down the row of giggling, gossiping girls, alighting on a shy
redhead he'd use her as a partner for the first demonstration, she has a look of constant eagerness on her freckled features which appeals to his ego - she is easily impressed. He picks up a new short playing record recently acquired for the youth club which advertises, he thinks, it's musical intentions with the words' A Foxtrot' clearly emblazoned on the label. He clears his throat noisily and raps the table beside him for silence. 'The next dance we're going to learn," he begins, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the hubbub but with a sligh note of authorative warning in the GoTo 'Chapter One'Welsh tones, 'is the Foxtrot.' The record hits the turntable and he stands poised,
