Personally, I equate natural rhythm with a general weakness in character. The English, can't dance; and rightly so. It's a matter of priorities. As a nation we skipped samba class and got extra credits in War, and Sneering 101.
This animosity remains ingrained in the psyche. Ready to rear it's head as loose-limbed Spaniards or Italians roger our womenfolk across package-tour hotel ballrooms. Spiritually we'll always be much closer to the Germans. Their national dance involves slapping each others leather-clad backsides; ours involves hitting each other with sticks.
But, sadly, women equate prowess on the dance floor with a prowess between the sheets. This is of course patently untrue. I myself am a terrible dancer.........I make strenuous efforts to avoid it; at least until after the third date.
So here I am at another corporate function (I think we're fiddling while Rome burns, but I'm not about to turn down a free bar); and after the meal and speeches, we have, the disco. And there she is - all long legs and Latin looks. A young lovely with whom I've been enjoying quite the flirtation. And I don't know if it's the rhythm or the complimentary champagne that's got her, but she's grabbing my hand and pulling me to my feet; and my "maybe later" <preferably post-coitally> is falling on deaf ears.
So there I am, the whitest heterosexual on the dance floor; bustin moves that would shame the father of the bride. And she's fast forwarding the evening, and thinking about the amount of physiotherapy she's going to need if I was doing that horizontally. This is not good. The song (mercifully) ends but so does any opportunity I might have to prove her assumption wrong.....
