As culture vultures, there is little my generation have devoured stateside that has stood the test of time. Yes, we have dallied with pretending we liked basketball before realising that the last 30 seconds is where all the excitement occurs, or American football after enjoying a John Madden marathon on the Sega megadrive, but besides that, there is scant little.

Others extol the virtues of the (American) office, now cunningly rebranded as ‘the office’, but those of us who remember the ground-breaking original have no wish to watch an Aldi version of the comedy great, where a joke is told and then explained 26 times to ensure our American cousins ‘get it’.

Some of the shows are incredibly good however but are few and far between such as Breaking Bad, Ray Donovan, Jeffrey Dahmer, and Better Call Saul, but most are overacted dross designed to tread downtime water before you meet your maker.

One curious import however, which I have become embroiled in, is that of the school ‘prom.’ I spent a less than pleasurable day yesterday shopping in Watford for a prom dress (which is basically a smart dress) as we traipsed around numerous outlets and my suggestions, humoured at first, were ignored by the end of the day as Izzy and her friend/personal shopper Poppy discussed fits, cuts and other foreign to me apparel discussion, as I begged them to get a move on so I could get home in time for the cricket.

It was a curious event as I found myself way out of my comfort zone, especially when I walked into a wedding shop with two 16-year-olds in tow as the lady behind the counter readied her hand to call social services. After being shown the prom dresses, despite numerous requests, they would not give me a price, claiming we would have to wait until the ‘he won’t be long’ owner came back as, out of the blue, we suddenly felt we were being held against our will. She did not deny that the dress would be expensive as we darted to the door when her attention was elsewhere and scarpered to Mango instead.

Apparently, this prom charade was imported circa the year 2000. I don’t even remember if we had a leaving do besides egging Mr Hancock’s car, deploying some stink bombs in Boyce’s metalwork room and just generally throwing back in their faces the respect our teachers gave us at the time.

We did have weekly teenage discos however at the ‘Oasis’ in Rye, resplendent with mock palm trees which adorned the walls, doors and windows of a ‘club’ that was as large as a small community hall on the mean streets of Rye. ‘Living on a prayer’ was a particular favourite before the final few slow songs played and I would often find myself eagerly scanning the dancefloor periphery for similar misfits as my mates hugged a girl they’d fancied for yonks and gave me less than discreet thumbs up signs behind her back.

But now its not just an event, but an industry. The venues are plush (I attended one a few years ago on a boat on the Thames) and include country manors and nightclubs as the kids hurry around to find a ‘date’ before paying a king’s ransom to not only attend, but as now seems en vogue: arrive in style. I recently received a text from a friend, a parent in a similar position to me, who was desperate to book a Ferrari to drop his bairn off at the venue before picking him up later in his white transit van.

But, despite this being a whole new world to me, I’m glad they have something like that they can call their own. They only know this as being a thing in their lifetimes and they are going out to celebrate after finishing an exam series which would be a lot of pressure to place on fully grown adults, let alone kids finding their way in the world.

As for my Izzy, you will be glad to know I purchased her a dress so she will go to the ball! I just have to work out how to tell her she’ll be travelling in the front of a Ford Fiesta EcoBoost to the venue, as I’m not made of money you know…

  • Brett Ellis is a teacher