Reflections on a Dance Class

When my beloved suggested going to ballroom dance classes, I thought, well, we could give it a go. Might be fun. But often things in life are more complicated than they first appear....



I should really have heeded the first sign of danger and made a quick escape at the very first lesson when the male dance teacher demonstrated the basic steps of the Cha Cha Cha. Back and forth, side to side with such exaggerated arm flourishes than the entire class of fresher students burst out laughing. Is that what I'm expected to do? I was filled with horror.

You see, it's a difficult time to be a man at the moment. We want to be modern men - sensitive, able to cry, lover of potpourri. But to be honest I can't tell my Mandarin Clove from my Soft Vanilla. It's no longer cool to be the strong silent type. Camp and sensitive is cool.

As the father of three girls, I've even considered whether becoming gay could earn me some much needed cool points. Apparently, it's so cool that even my wife wouldn't mind. We wouldn't have sex anymore but we could have many intimate moments discussing soft furnishings and Kylie Minogue. But it's not really the same. And the fact is that none of the Village People really do it for me and I get in a terrible muddle when I try to spell out YMCA with my arms.

I do have one trait in common with the modern metrosexual man - I'm hopeless at DIY. I was very encouraged some years ago when a study concluded that men who are rubbish at DIY must be great in bed, as this was the only explanation for their women hanging on to them. When I read this out to my wife she enthusiastically agreed with the conclusion. Well, OK, she said 'Yes, of course dear' without making eye contact but it was enough for me. So, DIY incompetence aside, I don't think I fit the bill for modern man and I can tell that my failure to use Nivea for Men doesn't go down well in social circles. I feel almost compelled to drag my knuckles along the floor when I admit to my love of Match of the Day and my 50" plasma TV. (And it's not compensatory. As I say, I'm rubbish at DIY.)

Back to the dance class. We've been going for some time now and over the months I have observed that there are two types of women who attend these classes. The first type, and to be fair this is most of them, want to wear pretty frocks and glide gracefully across the dancefloor. Quite how my wife expects to attain any level of gracefulness with me clinging to her is beyond me. A ballet dancer and a chimp comes to mind. The second type, as far as I can tell, seem to attend primarily in order to touch men they hardly know in a very inppropriate manner. You might think that I wouldn't mind this but the fact is that the over-sexed women in this second group are generally considerably more butch than any of the Village People. I know this is not saying much but I'm simply not going to dance with a person if I'm not 100% certain what gender they are.

Quite apart from a constant fear of ending up in the arms of John Prescott in drag, there are other complications with this dancing lark. We go on a Friday night after dinner. Now, when you get to a certain age, you like to have your dinner, sit down in your favourite chair and, well, let your digestion take place. Instead, I'm rushed off to do vigorous gyrations in a sports hall. The inevitable occurs. Quick, quick, slow, fart. Quick, quick, slow, fart, fart, fart. I try to keep other couples away by flinging my arms around wildly, doing my best to make it look like part of the routine, but sometimes couples do stray within the danger zone. All that's left to do is look horrified at my wife in a vain attempt to deflect the blame. Not very chivalrous, I know, but what can you do....

The difference between male and female attitudes amuses me. Most of the women want to quickly get to Strictly Come Dancing standard, whilst most of the men just muddle along. Myself, I've resolved to at least surpass Anne Widdecombe standard. I seriously doubt that I'll reach the heady heights of John Sargeant. Some of the men, whatever dance we're meant to be doing - waltz, tango, rumba etc - always look like they are doing the classic 'Dad at the wedding disco'dance. In a similar vein, one couple always look like they are at a barn dance. Sometimes, I'm tempted to shout do-si-do! just to see what would happen. Perhaps they would suddenly break into a perfect Vienese waltz.

So, think twice before taking up this passtime. If you are considering it, let me help you by giving you brief instructions on the most popular dances:

Jive - Hop back and forth energetically but at all costs avoid, as I did, catching sight of yourself in a reflection as you will not be able to get Funky Chicken out of your head from that point on.

Vienese Waltz - Rock back and forth and spin around until you feel sick. Easy.

Samba - Pretend you are running over very hot sand without your flip-flops on.

Tango - Thrust yourself vigorously toward your lady in a manner completely unacceptable for public view. I quite like this one.

Foxtrot - Wander around the room taking random and aimless steps. I seem to have cracked this one but my wife insists I am not doing it 'properly'.

Paso Doble - Act like a cross between a penguin and a matador. But quite why you would want to imitate an animal tormenting bastard is beyond me.

Cha Cha Cha - Sorry, I can't help with this one because they keep adding steps to it and now I can't remember any of it.

Rumba - Exactly like the Cha Cha Cha but in slow motion.

To be honest, this probably tells you all you need to know, so I suggest you settle down and have you dinner. It's far less dangerous.