So here it is punters. The first adventure! Hussey's Riot begins.

I awoke the next day in my room, caked in that London, hangover sweat, mind troubled by images.

Twirling bodies, a beautiful girl. Barndating?

What did it all mean? Well sit back reader and let me dream it all up for you...you are feeling very sleepy...drink this, no don't worry...they are vitamins...

Between the dark oak panels of Finsbury Town Hall the coat queue is a-song with chatter. I am lined up by myself, jacket over one arm, Red Bull and whiskey in the other. Above my head, over a set of sombre doors, gold leaf spells 'Council Chambers'. Through another, a much larger portal, something energetic is happening.

In the vaulted distance rises a stage. On it a woman in a red motorcycle helmet is screaming directives as 12 check shirted musicians twang idly behind her.

'Yeah are you up for the best one!? THE FINSBURY REEL!' Helmet head shatters at the audience.

'We made this up! It goes like this!' In her leather mini and skyscraper platforms she goes through a partnerless mime. Quick fire dance steps, they fizz into unremembered nothing. She shows us again, throwing some insane high kicks at the end.

By this time I have dragged myself to the front and am gazing moon faced up at the funny lady with all the other Barndaters. Looking around I find ribbons in hair, a sprinkling of ten gallon men and throngs of pink faced women.

They look ecstatic. They look sweaty.

'ONE-TWO-A-ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR!'

The dancing begins except dancing isn't quite it. Its more like middle-class crowd trouble. A beautiful woman snatches up my hand and I become part of her jostling circle. Like many of the cowgirls here she's wearing a fetching gingham collision, Karen Millen vs. Shane.

We smile. She has apple cheeks and metal toed bootees. They sparkle, we twirl.

But then! The dance has snatched her and I am left catching the hand of a dripping man. Despite a fine mustache, a real 'Wanted Poster' curler, he is not my type. I have greater problems to deal with too.

Someone behind is kicking the bejesus out of me. Every time we come to a certain step toes thump into my backside, sharp ones too.

Turn dozy-doh whack! Turn dozy-doh whump!

I turn to complain, only to find the apple cheeked girl. So this is 'Barndating' I think. She smiles and I melt.

Soon more people pile on, the music slides to a demented waltz and everything cranks up a notch. I text someone in the toilets, buy another round and come back to the gyroscopic mass.

Before me the swamp of charging lines and incestuous circles break and reform. No longer a dance floor it reminds me of a football terrace, loosely choreographed. Still everyone is having grand fun, you can see it, grins break out everywhere.

Of course I am multiple Red Bull and Jacks down (or up) by this point. Maybe its my head, not the dancers spinning. I retreat to the bulging fringes, gathering myself and wondering about the funny tent in the corner.

A sign outside reads 'Romancers Retreat' and within, under dim fairy lights, couples fondle in treacled motion.

Its all too much, my vision is whirling so I slip away. Maybe I'll get lucky and meet 'apple cheeks' at the bus stop? But no, no London fairy tale for me this time. I find only that red bench and three slumped Barndaters, waiting on the N19.

What a night though! Dances had been danced and hours passed in seconds. Barndating I will be back and next time I'll bring my hat.

Want to go Barndating? Surf to Cutashine's Facebook. They plan a Valentines hoe-down, the jacked up rascals.

Tune in next week as Patrick goes to a filthy house party! And if you don't know what on earth is going on click One Million Parties for the instructions.