The year is 1993. Every Saturday night myself and three of my closest chums would cruise to Portsmouth. Two of us, with freshly minted licences, would take turns driving, whose turn it was determined by whose mum was feeling brave enough to give lends of her car to a bunch of spotty adolescents.
We would be off to the then brand new, and somewhat trendy, Port Solent complex with a mind of popping to the pub and wooing ladies, the theory being that said ladies would be so impressed that we had arrived in our own car that they would become very keen to rub their lips on our faces and fall helplessly in love with us. Despite all the spots.
