Tazered Travolta

Turns out our resident columnist also enjoys throwing shapes on the dancefloor. You should see him do the fandango. Very, very frightening

Illustration: Sean Coen

If you’ve ever seen a sperm whale tear the face off a seal while being simultaneously pleasured by a confused octopus, you’ll have a pretty good idea of how I look when I’m dancing. It’s more despair than Astaire; more Nurofen than Nureyev. I’m going to tell you about my favourite dancing moment, which is as pointless as a panda recounting his favourite orgy, but stay with me.

Do you remember Daft Punk before they became wedding buffet beige? When they were a super techno spaceship and not a rusted milk float? Their debut album reduced a zillion record needles to an exhausted nub. I caught them DJing at Manchester’s Bugged Out, which sounds like disco for pest exterminators, but was actually one of the most bang-on club nights of the 90s.

Picture the scene. Everyone was sponked off their Y-fronts on idiot pills. A dancefloor full of shirtless gurners glistened like butcher’s window ham. Young scenesters stroked their barely pubic beards. Huddled corner lurkers rolled curious cigarettes. Braids, curtains, faded denim, someone reading the first Harry Potter book or whatever the heck you had in 1997, I dunno.

The beats hit as hard as a belly flopping disco walrus and oh boy, I danced. Here is a list of moves I tried that night: dangerous macarena, hippo chic, crucifixion shuffle, tazered Travolta, surprise groin swing. As I was throwing shapes (squares, triangles, that complicated one called dodeca-something), a Frenchman shaped like a pepperpot approached me. This next bit is absolutely true. With all the hope of the world in his eyes, he placed his small hands on my torso. The Frenchman then rolled me like dough while declaring in a guttural Parisian accent: “Wide boy! Wiide boooy!”. He actually rolled me. Now, he wasn’t wrong. You could indeed call me a “wide boy”. I’ve also been called a planet-sized twazmuppet and a tuneless tribute to burger-Elvis.

But no matter how much you knead me, I’m not going to turn into focaccia.

As the guy sloped off and the scuffed acid of ‘Da Funk’ filled our ears, I’d learnt something new. Something important. Despite the hefty blur of mangled flesh that leaves fellow clubbers cowering in the cloakroom, my dancing was now internationally notable. My surprise groin swing had won the day. I am whale, I am seal, I am octopus. I am Wide Boy, the malleable monster of movement. Now watch me pirouette. Duck!

0 Shares:
You May Also Like
Read More

Amoeba blobby thing

When our so-called columnist gets ideas above his station, we hang him upside down in the stationery cupboard for a bit. We forgot we’d put him there this month. He went a bit odd, can you spot the difference?
Read More

Moral Dilemmas

A waste of space? Sure, but our errant columnist came in pretty handy when we wanted someone to look after the office hamster while we were on our holidays…
Read More

No More Nails

Our resident columnist is back from his stint at the Edinburgh Festival. We reckon you ought to be seeing him on ‘Mock The Week’ any day now. In the meantime, he’s demanding a pay rise and going on about Aphex Twin again
Read More

Scotch Eggs

Deluded, misguided, ill-informed, flawed, confused, and for the most part, barking up the wrong tree. Oh, sorry Fats, opened A letter addressed to you by mistake. It’s from your doctor…
Read More

Bell-ringing

And this, gentle reader, is what happens when a grown man spends an entire weekend listening to Chuck Berry’s ‘My Ding-A-Ling’ on repeat…
Read More

Timmy Mallett, Tony the Tiger, Jesus

Our resident columnist Fat Roland remembers the time he met one of the guys from Orbital, his all-time favourite band. Except he doesn't actually remember it because his brain was full of drugs, absinthe and, er, farm animals