Latin The Good Times Roll.

Surely last night's demonstration of how the seafront is meant to be used should encourage more of the same?
When you go home with holes worn into the bottom of your brand new shoes, isn't that indication enough that you've had a jolly good time dancing the night away (or are overweight or you shouldn't buy your shoes in Woolworth or all three of the aforementioned)?
Even the youngsters were having a good time on the beach, albeit kicking the dayshifts' detritus around. I seem to recall, not so long ago, at the Jazz Festival in Margate, a swathe of rather bored looking children shuffling their feet and muttering something about 'bloody road sweepers'. But, after all, that was jazz, not the exciting Latin beat that we were treated to last night!
The drummer did throw a bit of a wobbly at one point and went right off on his own but I'd like to think that he was, however, just taking the piss out of jazz a little.
On my walk home, feeling both elated and exhausted, I turned at the top of the Eastcliff Steps for one last look at the venue that I'd just vacated only to be saddened somewhat by the fact that it was completely dwarfed by the fenced off, derelict Pleasurama site.
If any of the organisers of the event happened to be within earshot at the time, please have my assurances that the wild looking woman banging her hands on the railing and shouting 'C*NTS!' in your rough direction was not aiming it at you!

Nice one chaps and thanks!