I am a human, I am no dancer

It is said non-choreographed dancing is the direct physical reaction to melodic sound completely bypassing the self-conscience. Further, as a result of this state, it supposedly reveals in a male to a female exactly what kind of lover he is.

This is a lot pressure for a man - knowledge of the latter does not particularly help with the former, you know?

Mainly, I say, dancing is a social contrivance for rhythmic humiliation.

This was brought home to me like an ice cream headache last week when I found myself on the dance floor of a local social club at the end of a party. By this stage of the evening it was the last dance, the DJ insisted that everyone left was to get onto the dance floor and cut some rug. Up to that point, I had stoically remained seated. Being the designated driver I was not on the alco-pops. This had barred the usual path to short circuiting my self-conscience. As I made my way forward I knew I had seen busier train platforms after the last train of the night. There was going to be no hiding place.

Desperately, I tried to invoke a zen to free my body from my mind.

Now the most pure of dancing is surely produced by the Rock 'N' Roll Flower. It is solely designed for the purpose of dance. It will literally dance unquestioning to anything: The SugaBabes, someone clapping their hands, a husband and wife having a domestic, David Guetta.

And yet, ironically, even though I dance exactly the same as the Rock 'N' Roll Flower - I would not be considered close to a decent dancer.

Call me worthless. Tell me I will never find happiness because I am so ugly. Spit on me and yell that I deserve it. I WILL STILL DANCE

Once I was on the dance floor, I knew I was in trouble. I didn't know the quango crafted auto-tuned song. Girls and ladies were not only swaying and sashaying but would punctuate their movements with hand actions. Yes, there was understood interpretive hand actions to all but me. I was in all sorts. Rendered the dance equivalent of mute and knowing it would be too obvious if I simply walked back to my chair, I pulled out my stalwart default Ian Brown dance moves.

A few female friends began to giggle. They subtly drew attention to me. A girl I knew exclaimed that I couldn't dance (offering me a business card of a dance teacher while dancing at me) as I continued to jog on the spot.

I began to panic. There must be moves I have busted in the past that I can pull out of my armoury? A shape I can lay?

My life flash danced before my eyes:
Well, there was the school dance, where the coolest boy in class taught me to dance like MC Hammer. But that could dislocate my hips these days. There was the time at university when I created a short-existing dance sensation of standing still with my head raised to the ceiling and hands behind my back on the dance floor during the breakdown segment of songs. But that might just make me appear foolish outside the student fraternity. Or the occasion when my hair was long and I did a bit po-go-ing and shook my head in time at a rock concert. But it will possibly take longer than this track to grow my hair. There was the dancing I did at my parents anniversary party, I felt pretty cool that night. That might work - just need to remember what I did back then. If only I could remember...

What song is this... does this go on the radio?

My mind was wandering now:
How come dancing is so easy for girls? They can do whatever they like. Shuffle and give little effeminate flicks of their wrists. Do full on mime actions to lyrics. It's all the same. They cannot look silly dancing on a barely populated social club dance floor whilst every so often doing hand grabs to one another, if they tried. They always look good dancing, totally at ease with the situation.

And look at me. Here I am jogging on the spot, being horribly aware of my own body letting me down. And now another guy is in my view. The girls are loving him. He is doing the robot. What is that saying about his bedroom manner? I bet he is into all kinds of weird funk. I could do the robot.

Then another flashback: Robot is a no go. Abort robot. My robot appears to have pneumatic valve issues. It is in need of a service at the very least.

Nope. I will stick to the Ian Brown jogging on the spot. While still trying to remember what shapes I was throwing at my parents anniversary and smoothly morph them into proceedings here. Now what was I... it was a bit like... was that?... Surely... Oh... No....

It was at this point that I realised now what I was too young and naive to know all those years ago.

I was totally air-doggy-styling at my folks party. And miming a bit arse slapping for good measure.

Some kid in the playground had been acting it out and I must have thought he was showing off a sweet, sweet dance move.


Yep, Lord of the Dance, that is moving without self-conscience whilst hinting what someone is like in the sack, right there. No more disturbingly put than through the medium of a 12 year old boy in front of his parents.

I became suddenly very comfortable with my ape-does-jogging on the spot until the end of the song. That'll do for me. After all it is good to leave a little mystery about you, girls like that too, you know.