Interpretive Dance is like Kryptonite to me. All that bodily expression and urgent sincerity make me want to hurl myself into the fucking sun. I’m so British. It’s like a disease.
So imagine my bafflement when I found a flyer for a local group called The Naked Truth Dance. Imagine me reeling around, clutching my hand to my forehead bouncing from lamppost to lamppost like Benny Hill in a pinball machine. Imagine the dawning bafflement on my face when I read the words – “Dance out your deepest secrets in your most primitive form”.
Talk about striking fire into my heart. It’s like a blade of ice. Jesus Christ. I’m sweating just thinking about it.
The only time I’ve come close to something like this was when I was eating yoghurt in my pants and I started retching. And in case any of my exes are reading this then yes, I’ve still got it. Still got it. PLAYA.
If this makes me sound like a misanthrope than you’re probably right. I’m not fond of people with their toenails and their opinions and their stupid flapping mouths. I don’t like them coughing and thinking and colouring things in with highlighters like pedestrian apes. Imagine – imagine – them dancing without clothes, telling you their darkest past(est) like a drunk at a party who you can’t get away from, limbs blurring, breathing their halitosis all over you. Like a house of mirrors glimpsed in a heat-haze.
Then it got me thinking. Do I even have any deepest secrets worth dancing out?
Of course I do.
(1) That time I once stole a pen from Argos
(2) That one time I put a bee in a cup and shook it then ran away.
(3) When I used to turn the thermostat up as a kid so it would feel like I was on holiday.
(4) I once broke a cup at work and hid it back in the cupboard without telling anyone
These are my truths. Deal with them, people. Deal with them or I will dance them for you with all my tits out and bush and everything.