by David Jones
Men and dancing are unhappy bedfellows. For the purposes of this column, I do not include those males, some talented, others just celebs grateful for prime time publicity, who take part in Strictly Come Dancing. They’re all doing it for a reason.
In the real world, most men look like a human version of Pinocchio – with the strings attached – as they make fools of themselves on the dance floor.
But there’s worse to come for me. My wife has accepted an invitation to another barn dance. Will she never learn?
I will be accused once again of being a killjoy, but the harsh, inescapable truth is that I cannot dance, in a barn or anywhere else.
Try as I may, it is difficult to completely shut out dancing from my life. It’s everywhere. But, as you might imagine, I was not Strictly’s biggest fan. I can’t stand dancing, either doing it, or watching it. It is the creation of the devil, designed to heap embarrassment on those who have two left feet and look just plain ludicrous attempting anything other than the most sedate of slow waltzes.
By a quirk of fate, Codgers Cook and Jones both ended up as guests at the same wedding several weekends ago.
It’s quite a novelty being invited to a wedding these days. As the years roll on, the invitation is more likely to be to a funeral than a wedding. But weddings at some stage inevitably involve dancing, which funerals, thankfully, do not. Mr Cook, I noticed, did not venture on to the dance floor to strut his stuff as the band played a selection of rock and roll hits. I was not so lucky.
My good lady dragged me out on to the floor once or twice, where I proceeded to “dance” in the same awkward, mechanical way as most males when they are forced to prove in public what they already know – that dancing is not their thing.
However, I refused to budge from my seat when the band played the first few chords of Twist and Shout, for fear that even one gyration might permanently lock my right knee if my cartilage started playing up again.
At least I know when I am making a fool of myself, unlike the overweight, middle-aged man on the dance floor last Saturday who thought he was John Travolta.
My pathetic efforts at dancing will serve as a trial run for my ordeal to come.
It is at the barn dance in May that I will once again demonstrate beyond any doubt that I am arguably the world’s worst dancer.
I last attempted participation in a barn dance some two years ago. I still have nightmares about it. I was chastised by the caller, over a microphone and very loudly, for being the only person in the hall going in the opposite direction to everyone else. I eventually left the dance floor by popular demand after almost garroting the woman next to me as we attempted some intricate twirling routine.
No doubt I will be told to pull myself together this time and put in a bit of effort. Three or four pints might improve my dancing skills or at least deaden the pain, but I fear I shall be driving, so that option is out. It should be a good evening.
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