From September to the back end of December, you will find me every Saturday evening pursuing one of my favourite and possibly quite nefarious (hey, I’m trying to make it interesting, okay?) pastimes. I don’t talk about it often, preferring to keep it secret, concealed behind a veil — a parallel existence far removed from my everyday travails. But today, steeling myself for the inevitable judgement and condemnation, I have decided to speak out — to brave the scorn and ridicule, to risk the loss of friendship so that I may hold my head high, content in the knowledge that I am willing to confess my weaknesses!
It started a few years ago when my guard was down. I had an especially bad case of the flu at the time and instead of spending my Saturday evening annoying people in cyberspace, as was my usual habit, I was crashed out in front of the television with my parents — a little bit out of it, as I’d taken an anti-sickness pill that had had some really cool side-effects, and generally not really giving a damn what was on the television. I had my own entertainment, thank you very much.
Then the signature tune started and Bruce Forsyth and his co-host came dancing on. “Nice to see you, to see you…” good old Brucie said and, bang on cue, already beginning to buy into the show, I replied with the rest of the audience, “Nice!” I chuckled along with his inane humour (anti-sickness pills, don’t forget!), found the coloured lights especially fascinating and… and then the show kicked off in earnest and I found myself watching…
… dancing. Ballroom fucking dancing. There were sequins, tinfoil (well, it looked like it), girls with splits in their dresses all the way up to their navels (I would have appreciated this even without my flu-induced weakness and the anti-sickness pill!), lamentably untalented celebrity dancers and exhibition dances by the professionals.
I was instantly hooked. It was the televisual equivalent of crack cocaine. I followed every rise and fall, every heel-lead, every miss-timed step, argued with the judges and… and swore that no one would ever hear about this. We all have our secrets, I reasoned, and, well, you know, I’d always be able to stop watching whenever I wished. And if I’m truthful, there was probably a grain of truth in that at the time. I could have turned my back on Strictly Come Dancing at the well-choreographed drop of a hat…
… until I saw this…
The Argentine Tango. Possibly the most stunning dance ever invented.
Go on, admit it — you want to try it, too, don’t you?
