The Politics Of Dancing
I was out the other Thursday with a lively fella called Ryan. He had consumed some refreshing drinks and was working out his energy on a little upstairs dancefloor in the Cathedral Quarter, Belfast. It wasn't anything to rival Gene Kelly, and the timing was a little sloppy, but the guy was funny, he smiled the whole time, and he took a series of charming office girls up for a whirl. It was one of those situations that's entirely changed by one person's happy demeanour, and he infected everyone at the tables around him.
Suddenly, one of the bar staff came over and spoke in his ear. Apparently, he was dancing in "an "inappropriate manner" and he was asked to either cool his jets or to take himself elsewhere. And with that miserable little command, the tone of the evening plummeted. We were perplexed. Wasn't a night such as this supposed to be fun? Who alerted the dance police?
If anyone should have been arrested, it was this writer and his clumsy manoeuvres to an old Dexys tune. But no, I got off without a caution, and soon after, Ryan took his leave. Is this a signal that our coolest cultural quarter is becoming absurdly bourgeois? Do we all need to qualify for a dancing proficiency test? And is Bruce Forsyth somehow to blame?