EDitorial ± 19-Mar-2001

Several Left Feet

I don't dance. Strike that. It's not so much that I don't dance. Let's face it. I can't dance. And like other activities at which I'm rubbish, such as swimming, cross-country running and solo choral singing, I tend to do my utmost not to partake of them. Cue the thin white duke:
Dance with me - don't dance with me
Beep beep
— Fashion, David Bowie
So, there I was on Saturday night at a bit-of-a-do, a combined silver anniversary & 18th birthday party, complete with live disco (thanks to the Burwell Bentleys, by the way, for a fun evening). Pretty good selection of music for the occasion, in my humble opinion, from Madonna to Mud to SClub7 to Tom Jones. Admittedly, I had to seek advice on most tunes more recent than 1995 - what is this macarena thang, fr'instance, and what is Lolly? - and before too long the dancefloor was filling up. I remained firmly seated.

In the privacy of my own home, with the gramophone pumping out the Stereo MCs, a transformation happens. I become Travolta, Robin Cousins and Jennifer Beals rolled into one, though that's not the Travolta from Saturday Night Fever, but Pulp Fiction. Arms move in a wild flapping fashion, head spins, and even legs jerk unpredictably. Typical of the avant-garde, you wouldn't know quite what to make of it, and you certainly couldn't take your eyes off it. And you wouldn't want to be too close to it.

More Dead Than A Jive

For a few minutes on the night, the genie was let out of the box, and I did my best to get down on it, cut a rug and shake my moneymaker. Everyone, not least myself, was hugely relieved when I back sipping a cold non-alcoholic beverage one more time. Get your back up off the wall, indeed.

Be seeing you!