Dancing and my feet go together like Miley Cyrus and subtlety.
Rhythm is not so much in my soul as it is in my backside.
For women, the beat begins with the gyrating hips. For men, it begins with the bottom.
Many male dancers behave in a fashion that suggests we're trying to scratch an itch deep within our backside without using our hands.
When it comes to dancing, my father taught me everything he knows, which was: Clap like a performing sea-lion; spin around occasionally while shouting "I was doing this when Michael was still singing ABC"; and, most importantly, never take a drink onto the dance floor for fear of spilling it.
I once saw my father do all of the above at once ... Whilst taking a beer onto the dance floor. The other dancers were treated to the skinniest, whitest Michael Jackson impersonator in history and a glob of beer in the eye.
My father always had a weakness for Michael Jackson and the Bee Gees. At family gatherings, the opening beats of Billie Jean usually ended up with my Dad spinning around and grabbing his crotch. It just wasn't appropriate behaviour for a school sports day.
As a result, I'm still shamelessly partial to a sudden burst of Billie Jean or Staying Alive.
The Bee Gees bring out the best and worst of mankind.
As soon as the falsettos fill the speakers, everyone thinks they are John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever.