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As a young man dancing was not for me. Back in the late Seventies.. I distinctly remember watching the goings on from the edge of the dance floor, by the bar! and recall being a little bit envious of all the fun they appeared to be having. But of course, not envious enough to take that first step into the unknown.

First of all, it looked bloody difficult. This foot here, that foot there, spin around and point to the sky! Oh, I forgot to mention, we're talking John Travolta era here. Then, secondly, there wasn't that many blokes out there anyway. The half a dozen or so of them stuck out like pimples on an adolescent face and obviously, fell into two categories, neither of which included yours truly.

There was the gay guy, who dressed and moved better than his female dancing partners and whose category I was not about to join. Then there was the pissed dancer. Generally off balance, out of time and not having much luck with the ladies. This was the category I thought I could do well in.

Five pints later, I found myself in judgement over what looked like a swarm of bees, gyrating to 'Staying Alive' and my conclusion was that Dance is not a universal art. The best scored a 6.5, but the worst a 2.2.

So, at this stage, I was just wondering which end of the scale I was likely to tip, when a stunning young lady grabbed my hand and said 'Come on, let's dance'. Wow, how could I refuse? Later on in the evening, she said her name was Nicky, then casually mentioned that I was 'a worse dancer than Ironside', you know the detective in the wheelchair! Anyway, 28 years later I still have two left feet, but the bonus is she still lets me dance with her. How cool is that?

Learn more about this author, Nick John.
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