Sex and dancing are not really that dissimilar. To do each of them properly, you have to feel rhythm, emotion and soul. Some people can have meaningless sex with a random stranger, or dance to bad music played from terrible, tinny speakers; but not me. Both are spiritual experiences and both can take you to places of sublime pleasure - unless, of course we are talking about group sex or country dancing; both of which involve mass participation, lack of judgement, and someone standing at the back, shouting, 'Swing your partner. Now first couple come in behind the second, and change your partners. More lubricant please.' Sorry, I know they don't call for lube during country dancing, but if they did I'm sure it would make it a lot more interesting.

I hate country dancing, I think this is mainly to do with the fact there's always one couple who think they are really goods at it, and take themselves very seriously indeed. They will go around the floor looking smug, and that rictus grin will stay on their faces throughout the evening, and continue as they get into their car to go home. They don't strictly come dancing, but I think wearing gingham and knowing every step of the Gay Gordon gets them pretty close. I dosey don't get it. Barn dances are a mystery to me. I'm terrible at country dancing, and I'm sure I would be equally hopeless at swinging. I don't know where to put my arms or legs in a group situation, I'm always grabbing the man who isn't my partner, pulling on the parts that I should be pushing and letting go of what I should be firmly grasping. I end up in fits of giggles and that doesn't always go down very well with the rest of the participants.

My abiding memory of country dancing with Charlie was at a posh black tie dance, with lots of local worthies in attendance. Charlie was enjoying the freedom of being allowed to drink again for the first time since his heart surgery and had downed one too many beers. He was feeling very jolly and rather too exuberant, and as he was swinging me around and around he decided to see what would happen if he let go. I ended up flying across the dance floor and landed on the floor in a heap of crumpled silk taffeta. Now that's not a good look for a woman, and it was the last time I let Charlie take me to a country dance. I gave him a very hard time when we got back to where we were staying, and would have walked home, were it not for the fact that home lay at the end of 12 miles of dark Devon lanes.

It was one of only three major rows during our marriage. Charlie took me for a long walk the next morning and promised never to misbehave on the dance floor again; we made love on a bluebell bank and he was true to his word.

So, you can see why I'm not that keen on barn dances, which is why the annual village event is something I've always keenly avoided. But this year, in a moment of weakness, I agreed to help out behind the bar. I was assured that the band weren't a red neck skiffle group, but a soul/blues combo, who rocked the cowshed last year. So, with this in mind, I made my way up the hill to the venue. I took my place behind the bar, acquainted myself with the beer keg and the bottle opener and set to work. Trade was brisk, and my fellow barman and I were rushed off our feet. The bottled beer was being chilled by ice kindly donated by the local fish merchant. This did give the bottles of Stella and Grolsch and somewhat unusual flavour, and luckily in the gloom the villagers were unable to spot the tell-tale fish scales sticking to the bottles, so they were none the wiser.

The pig roast smelled divine, but we were so busy that I never got to taste the scrumptious crackling, all I could do was sniff it from a distance. Eventually the band got underway, and they soon had all the locals up and dancing. I am very particular about what I dance to, and even though I was only a few feet from the band, I wasn't moved to leave the sanctuary of my bar and join in the revelry. The band had clearly been practising, they knew all the words to 'Love Shack', and the horn section were fairly proficient at swaying from left to right in time to the beat and swinging their horns in unison. But as for soul, well, they just didn't have it.

I think "Try a Little Tenderness' is a beautifully plaintive song, when sung by a man like Otis Reading, but sadly for us, the woman who chose to tackle this soul classic looked like Deirdre Barlow's shy myopic sister, and sang soul in the style of Mary Hopkins. This did take away a little of the magic, but none of the dancers seemed to mind. I was quite hoping that a big, black bloke would appear on the stage in loon pants and belt out 'Those Were the Days My Friends', but sadly it didn't happen.

I had a fantastic evening, happy behind the safety of my bar, observing the dancers and pulling pints. I was asked to dance a couple of times, as I'm sure people thought I'd like a break from the bar, but I politely refused. That prompted the response, 'Don't you dance then.' To which I replied, 'Yes, I love to dance - just not to this.' I know people felt sorry for me. And I wish I could have told those people that I knew every word and every note of the songs that were being massacred, and that I wanted to feel the melody flowing through me and the beat moving me onto the dance floor, but that Deirdre's sister just wasn't doing it for me. I know my music, I feel it; it is an essential part of my life and I think the joy it gives me is fundamental to my happiness. Dancing to great music is a head trip for me, and currently, I'd like to go to a club and lose myself in 'Feels Just Like it Should' by Jamiroqui. He may be an odd little fellow, but he does know how to write a sexy song. I don't need alcohol or drugs to get high. just put me on the dance floor with a pumping bass, and I'm there.


© Kate Boydell 2004. All rights reserved. e-mail: [email protected]. Close window.