In 1990 I was coerced into the rave scene. Memories were created, but the tunes were dreadful and I remain not in Grooverider's camp, but firmly on the Beatles' and the Stones' musical side of the tracks.

I never truly enjoyed the circus but was in the minority of one. Mad for it ravers would be ‘off their nuts’ and I, as Wise to my friends' Morecambe, was the straight guy, which generally equated to being nominated driver. I would taxi teenage lunatics with questionable dress sense to secretive warehouses and fields to be met by thousands of bug-eyed identity seekers. Aesthetically it was quite some sight and through female rave goggles I must have looked like Brad Pitt as I never seemed short of female companionship, no matter how short the trance-fuelled dalliance. From Hastings, Folkestone, Brighton, London and beyond, a hardy group of us were renegades with youthful ideals and pumping tunes, while generally being irritants in our neighbourhoods upon our return.

My flirtation with the rave scene ceased and I have not had the pleasure since around 1993. The events got too big and the movement was lost with numerous impromptu visits from the ‘rozzers’ and the onset of violence. There was increasing pressure as we were hassled by panhandlers to ‘buy some gear’. Refusal offends and some compatriots visibly weakened in the face of menacing sales patter. I was threatened with a kitchen knife in a field somewhere in Hampshire. It went from being a laugh to being no fun at all and I hung up my tie-dye T-shirt and white gloves and settled for the Village Green Preservation Society way of life.

Saturday nights have become more civilised with the benefit of being able to walk home after the event. Far from complaining, in my 40s I enjoy socialising without youthful aggression and listening to 12 hours of repetitive music while strangers, sweating profusely and blatantly on horse tranquilisers, maul you and declare undying love. This was before chundering on the Adidas Gazelles you spent hours scrubbing with your mum’s toothbrush in the pre-night out stage.

Last night reached a watermark as to just how much life had calmed down when I was invited to Bingo in Borehamwood. I tentatively accepted and, along with my wife and friends Darren and Keely, went on a Gala double date. Yes, I was a snob in the car. With jokes about two fat ladies and legs eleven, I expected a small hall smattered with blood and vomit as social inadequates desperately attempted to be classed as winners.

I was wrong. The venue was an amphitheatre of sorts, frequented by adults sitting in silence as the caller read the numbers at breakneck speed. Far from the stereotype of Bingo aficionados being intellectually inferior, we all found it a challenge to keep abreast of the rules and the rate of knots with which the balls dropped. It is not encouraging of conversation as the slightest comment mid game can put you off kilter. It even has its own language, which is quite some boast for what is a parlour game. My favourite bingo lingo: Danny La Rue, 52: Torquay in Devon, 87: overweight, 28, and thee and me, 23.

There was a mix of age ranges with the mean, unsurprisingly, being 60 odd, but I could see the attraction. So much so, that on Tuesday night I have planned with Darren to leave the house in full five-a-side regalia, swerve the football and discreetly go as two little ducks for another dab at the top prize. Social events alter with the passage of time but it’s a relief that the only line we are going to be pressured to buy from here on in comes in the form of a bingo booklet.