To dance or not to dance

I might do some more holiday previews in the near future, but let's face it we're going to end up going to some Spanish dump so there's not much point in me looking at tropical paradises! Thinking about it it will probably be more fun to preview a shithole so I'll definitely keep that idea in mind.

Today something a little different; an analysis of that strange human ritual, dancing. If I was to write a book on dancing (which would be akin to Ronaldinho writing a book on orthodontics) there could be many chapters. Rhythm, tempo, technique, seduction... the list goes on. The focus in today's serialisation is that vital step that precedes any of these factors - that initial decision to engage in dancing in the first place.

Now, some guys just love to dance. You just can't stop them. Step into a bar with a beat and that's it, they're off. Whether they pester you to go join them on the dancefloor or they just take off like a bat out of hell - the music simply intoxicates these guys and once they hear one of their fav tunes come out over the speakers, a transition is made.

For me, I can normally sniff out the nights where I suspect it will all culminate in dancing. Throughout the night I might put on a good show, but deep inside I'm nervously waiting for it to all begin with a grim mist of inevitability seeping through my veins with greater pressure as the evening presses on. It's like walking on a tightrope across an abyss of embarrassment, cheesey attempts to impress people of the opposite (or same) sex and no banter. Then finally, at long last, that one tune comes on and off the tightrope they fall.

Those who know me know that I don't even step onto the tightrope. I stay firmly on the edge. The thought of stepping foot on a dancefloor makes me sneer even as I sit over my keyboard this second. It all brings back bad memories of being trapped in the middle of a heaving crowd in some shitty nightclub, elbows jousting my sides and philanderers surrounding some slutty girl who knows that everyone in there is drooling over her. Everyone in there but me.

Note to self, another blog idea is about the girl who is hot but knows it. Total turnoff. Thanks, for showing me your entire cleavage, but no thanks. You cocktease. You'll never fool me.

I have the feeling this blog is getting out of control. I'll carry on for just a minute more, where was I.... yes, the moment when everyone steps onto the dancefloor - for me, that is the moment when any night ends. Whether I actually choose to leave or whether I (foolishly) decide to stay, the night is over. Dancing is not something I enjoy doing, and when I stand on the fringes sipping my beer I often wonder why there is such a compulsion to do it. Sure, I enjoy the music as much as anyone else. I just don't like to go and make weird movements over in front of the DJ whilst it's playing.

I might find the girl of my dreams on the dancefloor? Give me a break. I might pull? I doubt it. I lack the resolve, the fight and the motivation to pull on a dancefloor. I can't be bothered to compete with the jerk in the jacket who's doing his best Michael Jackson impression, or the div in the vest who's trying to act hard in front of that drunken slapper in the Hen Night sash.

By the way, there is no implication there that whilst off the dancefloor I go in the pursuit of women. If one comes and speaks to me then sure I'll do my best to entertain her, but it's often just too much effort to keep screaming down her ear above the music and just smiling and nodding at whatever she says in return without a clue what she actually said.

Again, there is no implication there that women do come up to me. And there's definitely no implication there that if one does actually come up to me, the chat is pleasant. "Who did your sideburns........" haha!

Anyway, that's enough.

PS. No I'm not gay