Tuesday, March 09, 2004
I Came To Dance
Once again several disapproving stares were shot my way in the gym this morning. Apparently, it's simply not the done (and definitely not the butch) thing to perform a little dance in the free-weights room, even when the song playing over the PA is DB Boulevard's rather wonderful "Another Point Of View".
But the boy can't help it, you see, for he loves to dance, and will at the slightest excuse. Find me a free square metre of space and I'll shimmy and I'll shuffle, and I'll boogie and I'll bustle, till the nice men in the white coats turn up to take me home. I don't even need the music: I'll conjure up tunes in my head, and can find syncopation in the hourly pips on Radio Four. And all this without the help of any pharmaceuticals either.
I'm talking solo here: I never could quite get the hang of doing it with a partner. (No grubby comments, please.) Along with the co-ordination required, it's just one more social skill I lack, and I can never quite decide who’s supposed to lead. Someone once bravely tried to teach me the tango, a dance memorably described as the "vertical expression of a horizontal desire". I can certainly vouch for the horizontal bit: I ended up on my back almost every single time.
Whenever I go to dance-clubs, it's inevitably my friends who cop off. They make the effort of chatting up tall and handsome strangers at the bar before becoming, er, better acquainted in somewhat darker places. The Stranger's too busy on the dancefloor, out there with the music and the mayhem and the lasers. Oh, and usually on a podium, if they've got one. Blatant showing-off? Of course not. Terpsichorean self-expression, more like, and pass the poppers, why don't you?
In fact, who needs the dancefloor? It’s only when I 'm on a serious downer that I don't dance my way down Old Compton Street (call it mincing, bitch, and I'll stamp on your Nikes with my stilettos). You'll even catch me in queues tapping my feet, wiggling my bum, and rocking from side to side, although part of that might be because I've just had three Stellas, and I really, really need to use the loo. And should I ever be caught with my umbrella in a torrential downpour then the temptation to do a Gene Kelly (or more probably a Morecambe and Wise) is pretty damn irresistible.
It's fun, my dears, and I can't think of any time or place where it's inappropriate to give 'em a bit of that old razzle-dazzle. I once even danced at someone's memorial service, although, to be fair, it was a showbiz send-off, and half the queens there were also high-kicking it to "It's Not Where You Start It's Where You Finish" from Broadway musical Seesaw.
And there it is. Because, if I had my way, then I'd be a song-and-dance man, and my whole life an all-singing, all-dancing musical extravaganza. At the very least it would have an absolutely cracking soundtrack.
Bloody hell. Can you imagine what I'd be like with an iPod?