Can anyone else smell Casanovas, the 80s nightclub in Wakefield?
I can.
It was very upmarket compared to Rebecca’s in Barnsley or, God help us, the strangely beloved club the Birdcage in Elsecar.
Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, the smell of Casanovas.
Every time I catch even the faintest whiff of dry ice, I’m catapulted straight back there, like a proto Marty McFly. Suddenly, I’m stood in a sticky-carpeted temple of neon, mirrors, dry ice, cheap lager, and badly misplaced self-confidence. I can feel the fug of the place pressing down on me, a potent cocktail of smoke machine fluid, sweat, and Hai Karate aftershave. I can hear the New Romantic soundtrack, that strange hybrid of synth-pop, disco, rock, and the occasional baffling burst of Latin rhythm, because nothing says “Yorkshire Saturday night” quite like a sudden conga beat. Incidentally for the best Yorkshire conga scene watch the contemporaneous film Rita, Sue and Bob Too
And the clothes! Good Lord, the clothes.
Frilly pirate shirts that looked like they’d been nicked off Adam Ant’s laundry line. Velvet jackets that looked like they’re off Bob’s fabrics on Barnsley market, in colours so lurid they could trigger migraines. Trousers with pleats sharp enough to wound a man. And hair, sculpted, moussed, and backcombed into structural feats of engineering that could survive gale-force winds and possibly nuclear fallout. Half of us looked like extras from Dangerous Liaisons, the other half like we’d been mugged by a branch of C&A.
But here’s the odd thing, it’s the smell of dry ice that drags me back there most vividly. Not a song. Not a photo. Not even the sight of someone foolishly reviving the high-waisted pleated trouser in 2025. Just that synthetic fog smell, instantly opening the floodgates of memory.
The Nose Knows Best
Now, science will tell you there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation. Apparently, the olfactory bulb s the bit of your head that does smell detection, and it’s directly connected to the limbic system, the bit of your brain that does emotions and memory. It’s not like sight or sound, which get routed through the sensible, bureaucratic parts of the brain first, as if asking for a permit before entering. Smell has a VIP backstage pass to your deepest feelings. It jumps the queue, barges in, and shouts “Oi, remember THIS?” before you’ve even had time to sip your pint.
That’s why smell memories are so powerful, they don’t just remind you of an event, they recreate it. A whiff of Brut 33 and suddenly you’re seventeen again, clumsily shaving in your mum’s bathroom mirror before a big date. A sniff of Pritt Stick and you’re back in a grey comprehensive school, gluing your fingers together instead of the worksheet. The nose is less a biological organ and more a time machine with a cruel sense of humour.
Why Embarrassment?
And here’s where I get mock-philosophical, why, out of all possible memories, do smells always seem to drag us back to the most mortifying ones? Why can’t I smell dry ice and be reminded of my youthful optimism, my philosophical discussions about the human condition, or even the noble moment I finally nailed the full moonwalk? No, my olfactory time travel tickets are strictly for humiliation.
It’s never, “Ah, the smell of freshly baked bread, how it reminds me of my grandmother’s kitchen, where she taught me kindness and resilience.”
It’s always, “Ah, the smell of dry ice, how it reminds me of nearly setting fire to my fringe with a lighter while trying to impress a girl wearing lace gloves.”
Maybe that’s the point. The noble stuff we already treasure and polish up in our conscious minds. We retell those tales, post them on Facebook, trot them out at family dinners. They’re preserved, like a nice wine. But the humiliations? Those lie dormant, buried under layers of denial, waiting for a passing scent molecule to come along and dig them out. Like an olfactory archaeologist of shame.
So when you smell a thing, petrol, TCP, the faint tang of pink school dinner custard, the brain doesn’t waste time showing you your highlights reel. It goes straight to the blooper reel. Because memory, like comedy, works best when you’re slightly appalled at yourself.
My Own Potential Catalogue of Scented Shame
Dry ice, Wakefield, 1983. A dodgy slow dance to Spandau Ballet while dressed like a Restoration-era highwayman.
Old Spice, My dad, sternly telling me to stop nicking his razor.
Damp wool, Standing on the touchline at school rugby, desperately pretending to care.
Chlorine, My teenage swimming baths, where the smell is forever mingled with the terror of communal changing rooms.
And the worst? The unmistakable whiff of chip fat on polyester. That instantly takes me to Saturday nights queueing for a kebab, shirt still damp from sweat and smoke machine mist, eyeliner halfway down my cheeks, dignity long since abandoned. The next morning finding my shirt covered in kebab juice, solidified like candle wax.
The noble moments of life are kept safe in photo albums and journals. But the embarrassing ones, they’re stored in the nose. Waiting. Ready. Merciless.
So yes, every sniff of dry ice is a one-way ticket to Wakefield, circa 1983. The club’s long gone, the fashions mercifully buried, but the memories are lodged permanently in my nasal passages.
A question I ought ask is what smells fling you back in time? The great smell of Brut, or Denim, for the man who doesn’t have to try too hard? The faint whiff of school dinner custard? The terrifying musk of a PE changing room?
Remember, your nose knows.
It just doesn’t care about your dignity, it stinks.