I always found dancing to be a bizarre concept. I realize I may be in an extremely small minority here, sharing my thoughts only with sociopaths and old men who shout at children for playing football in the street. In the words of Nietzsche: “We should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once.” I find this incredibly depressing, mainly because it’s a sad day when you realize you’re more morose and less fun loving than Friedrich bloody Nietzsche, but also because I’ve apparently lost a hell of a lot of days.
To me the act of dance seems to be a total evolutionary relic. Despite every advancement we humans have achieved, we still seem to cling desperately on to this prehistoric mating ritual. Like the human equivalent of a bird that attracts a mate by standing on a rock, flashing its feathers and squawking. There is, of course, a reason why animals do stuff like this – those who display power and skilful movement are generally better at acquiring food and crucially, not getting eaten by alligators. However, we aren’t birds. In fact, we have developed to the point where we regularly reject our own evolutionary instinct in favour of sheer decadence. We wear clothing which is impractical because it looks nice, and we don’t need to scavenge or hunt for food, we only have to walk to Tesco. So, why have we held on to this most regressive of past-times?
In truth, I don’t really know why I don’t like to dance. Maybe it’s because I’m not very good at it, perhaps it’s an issue with my own confidence, and maybe, just maybe it’s because I know that my skills lie in conversation, in talking to people. So, obviously, I harbour something of a resentment for the level of importance placed upon the willingness to partake in elaborately peacocking myself, whilst standing next to men who resemble Ancient Greek statues.
It’s about sex isn’t it, naturally! Of course it is you fool! It’s always about sex. Perhaps if I constructed a scenario for you it may sound more familiar. Say you’re talking to someone on those tables up the top of Willow, maybe one of your house mates friends from their course or back home. You’re on top form, brimming with wit and confidence. Then, of course, comes the death blow. “Let’s go dance?” they say. You’re heart drops; you know you can’t compete out there, out in the wild in the heat of the battle. You either stay in your seat and quietly sip your drink or hover at the corners of the dance floor, awkwardly flailing your limbs around like a prized tit.
Ring any bells? If not, be thankful. If yes, then hark to me my brethren, for I have a rousing battle cry. I do not know what it was that struck us with this affliction. Perhaps our mothers held us too much as children, or maybe not enough. Maybe it’s genetic, or it could simply be that we’re just a craven band of social incompetents with no business in such an establishment in the first place. Perhaps it’s all of these things, perhaps it’s none. Look I really don’t know. Maybe best stick to house parties, eh chaps?