Dancing

Or
What if the Hokey Kokey is what it's all about?

I don't know why dancing has always been a thing with me. Scientists may have mapped the human gee-gnome but they're a long way off pin-pointing the dancing gene. Where the hell it hides and how it's passed on is a mystery, but I do know I inherited this particular trait from my father, ever the groover, twirler and throw-you-back-so-your-hair-sweeps-the-floor tangoist extraordinaire. At the sound of a good beat, whatever the genre, he can't help toe-tapping, and given the right occasion his paso-doble days are far from over. That's where my parents hail from, the latter line of Spaniards who for generations have held each other tight and swayed and turned to live bands beneath the stars, in the relative cool of the humid southern nights.

Until I hit a self-conscious age I loved nothing more than the late night Spanish summer fiestas where cigarette smoke hung heavy and mingled with the smell of jasmine and cologne. I was allowed to stay up in my best bib and tucker and ran around with my cousins, loon-like, surreptitiously sipping my folks sangria, as the entire community pushed through til dawn. Dad was renowned as a good dancer and can also hold a pretty impressive note. He was so good that the ladies would queue up to dance with him. My arthritic ma would sit and gossip, shushing away Dad's appeasements, telling him to get on with it when he explained it was the ugly ones that danced the best! Now and then dad would grab me round the waist and away we'd go. It was like being transported into a Fred Astaire movie, I may not have known all the steps, but it didn't matter as he led so brilliantly well, it was like I was floating inside the music, everything else forgotten. It was amazingly uplifting. Adolescence arrived and I became more interested in the boys on the sidelines, but they didn't dance the same, if at all. I do however remember my very every first dance with a beautiful boy named Oscar. I must have been about seven, in a village in the Pyrenees. We did that hands on each others shoulders thing and shuffled round and round until we were giddy. That was a magical dance and was often replicated with different partners and (I hope) a little more style and passion through the years. Bliss.

Back home in England, living in the middle of nowhere, there were no dance classes my parents could feasibly get me to, which was such a shame. Still, I danced in the darkness in the neon glow of my adopted grandfather's music centre, mostly trad jazz, swing and Frank Sinatra. Eventually I discovered my own music and started going to parties. Aagh, I hated the reserve of my friends, it would take them forever or a gallon of cider to pluck up the courage and dance with me, huddled up close and self-conscious, spied on by the boys who would never join in!

I went to a few clubs in Hastings, but it wasn't until my move to London that I discovered fantastic places to dance, and less reserved friends that would wiggle along with me. I was unfussed quite honestly, skanking, lindy-hopping, salsa, rave, it all lifted me up and out of myself. I went to all kinds of clubs, but the gay clubs were of course the best. I was fortunate to join a young dynamic design company with a 'work hard, play hedonistically' ethos that partied virtually every Friday night through the mid 90s. No judgement, no reserve, just get down like there's no tomorrow. Kicking. I've also found that the very posh let rip with no reserve too. At charity balls, in me clinched-in taffeta with the boys on show - post five courses, the band strikes up and everyone, everyone gets up and rattles the old bones.... mostly to Roxy Music... Let's stay together.

The man shows willing, but dancing does not come naturally to him, the groove has to be just right and planets aligned for him to join in. Berlin seemed to fit the bill for him and was a complete blast - boy they know how to party in Kreutzberg! The man and I are both observers of people and we're passable mimics. He has a great ear and picks up subtleties in peoples accents and intonation that I can't even hear, let alone hope to replicate. I do however notice the way people move, their mannerisms and gait and my talent lies in replicating those, specially on the dance floor! Between us we've got our mates totally covered. Few people have known this but I love to subtly catch the man's eye and start 'doing' a mate, sometimes while dancing right next to them. If I'm hitting the nail on the head the man'll be in stitches. If I'm particularly on form I can have him feigning a coughing fit & exiting the dance floor. This gives me enormous pleasure. But lets keep it to ourselves please...

Apart from being swept up in the music, I guess one of the main reasons for loving to dance is the escapism and respite from the stresses of the day and the sheer joy of being alive, for me its a basic instinct. It's also a leveller, be it among the posh, the not so, the bosses and colleagues. There's a crowd of my kid's parents I've known for years now but only danced with for the first time at a party the other month, it brought us closer. It was really nice.

It takes a confident person to dance alone, and even more confidence to really feel the beat and let rip. You give something away when you dance, perhaps baring a part of your very soul, and some people just can't stand that, finding it far too intimate to reveal. One tweep made me laugh by once telling me he'd rather copulate in public than dance (!!). Dear God. 

Yes there are some things I won't dance to. Thank you but no, I won't do the Macarena. Ever. I have been known to do the conga at weddings (due wholly to the affects of champagne) but my style will never be Gangnam. You can, if you will, join me down the Black Cap, amongst the well dressed gentlemen, Blaming it on the Boogie.