Your disco really does need me. Or at least it really does need people that don’t dance like your gran wasted on whiz and giving it large to happy hardcore. I know I aint the Anrdre Agassi of dancing myself, more like the person who hands out the strawberries to rich people at Wimbledon (wannabe will neverbe) but while my girating is more epileptic fit than Shakira, at least I know I aint half as bad as half the monkeys I have witnessed over the past couple of weeks. At least I also know that if you move to the beat then you will at least keep in time and give off the impression that you have some clue as to the direction your hips are going in, that they aren’t disembodied after all. I also appreciate that shoulder shimmying and air punching and yelling “come on” are no go areas, at all times. Like all good lesbos I love to dance. I only hope I pull off moves better than so many of the resident floor punchers that feature sometimes rather prominantely in gay clubs. I don’t know if it’s the drugs that incite baggy jeans grimace faced lesbos to stand with their legs spread, crouched down and fisting the space between their legs. No, I thinks that’s the lesbo quality in them that makes them do this. It’s not pretty, it does take up a lot of room and quite frankly, it’s offensive. Eyes should also remain open when shaking the booty cos at least then you can look around you and know how not to dance. I think gay men and straight girls generally know how to dance, they know how to sneak in some hips and sexy arm motion without looking like your dad at a family wedding after too much free wine. Of course there has to be many an exception. Take for example the poof that was almost literally tearing up the dance floor in the Priory last night. It’s a small dance floor and he had at least 5 sq meters to himself and this space was given eagerly for fear of the damage he may cause others as he flung himself around in circles and waved his arms like he was drowning in my vomit. The look on his face which said ‘jesus this poop is a toughy’ was clearly supposed to be some seductive pout but would not have looked out of place on a drunken slag going through the motions for the 8th time that day. At least it does give much amusement, watching these pretty boys getting every Steps move wrong and lip syncing to Britney Spears like they are the lady herself. It’s not something I myself have been known to shy away from after 4 whole drinks and I am equally as revolting on the dance floor, thinking I am a world Britney expert when I know her moves about as well as I know how to get a guy off. It gets even worse when Slave for U or some slinky R’n’B tune comes on and everyone tries to get sexy. Ladies and gents there really is nothing sexy about thrusting your pelvis in someone’s face, no one really needs to smell your unshowered genitals. Nor is there anything hot about ‘seductively’ rubbing yourself up and down someone’s full body with your blue jeans arse sticking out further than my belly. I must admit that I do love a straight boy dancer. They have such grace and are a bit too fond of the side stepping manoeuvre favoured by ancient family members and hugely popular in the fifties. There’s nothing like a bit of listless inhibited dancing to get me off I tell you. And as I rip in to all the shite dancers of Aberdeen (although I’m sure this subject is not city sensitive) I will get off my chair and mock myself in the mirror for also being one of these too clumsy to dance well people that bring me so much joy.
Doing: Pretty much myself