I Dream A Dream

I have a dream.....not a meaningful dream like Martin Lk but a dream none the less.

My dream is one I have harboured for many years basically since I first noticed girls and that they liked a guy who could dance, my dream is to dance!

Not in a billy elliott style I hasten to add, no boy wanting to dance on a worldwide stage here just boy wanting to dance with girls without killing their feet and/or killing the rhythm! Alcohol acts as a buffer for this dream when occasion to dance presents itself but, while my head in its inebriated state is thinking the boy CAN dance the feet continue blissfully unaware of this update and continue to shuffle in a non-committal style, part rhythm part trying to make for the door!

Anyway, as I've said dancing has always looked exceptionally cool to me, when done well, apart of course from tap which is like rhythmic masturbation in public! Ooh look at me I can tappity tap myself to orgasm. I just do not see the attraction. Tap should be left to old people, take Bruce Forsyth for example, every time I' m unfortunate enough to see him on tv he comes on doing this soft shoe shuffle crap that just isn't dancing I'm telling you, its made up he's just slapping his feet off the floor vaguely in time to the music while the (elderly!) crowd goes into bloody raptures. I frequently get up and shout obscenity's at the telly at the mere mention of Brucey.

But back to my dream, I dream that I finally succumb to my dancing obsession and start to practice day and night with a purpose. I choose a routine and go at it hammer and tongs day after day, week after week, in a Rocky style, eye of the tiger I train non stop for my big moment. I phone in sick in order to train, I lose sleep in order to train, I dance up and down my street alarming small children but drawing ever approving glances from the old ladies and I give up all other hobbies, (shouting at Brucie for example) in order to train. All with one purpose in mind.

Until, finally the day has come,

and its conference time, the Celtic Manor is heaving with bp of all shapes and sizes, we've had dinner the awards stuff is done and dusted and the dance floor opens. The dj begins spinning his discs and slowly the dance floor fills, at first only with the ladies of hr who always hit the dance floor first, but then with all and sundry as the mood builds. At last my time is upon me, I must fulfill my destiny, I've done all that practice for this one moment in time and now is that moment, I make my way to the dance floor , through the drunken hordes to far gone to dance.

As I approach the floor I spy the vacant boards ahead of me, I work my way past the ladies of hr all huddled together in a seamless dance of arms and legs in perfect sychronicity including Fagoon who's offering advice to the less rhythmic among them bellowing encouragement over the pumping base, I sidle past Carl of Stonebridge who shirt wide open to the waist is impressing several females with his well practised hand jive, young Charlie in attendance picking up some of the masters grooves, “ watch this one Charlie he shouts” as he flips the jive from left to right, past Gavin once again reeling out his highland fling disco version, pretty much the same as the traditional version but with glow sticks.

At last I reach my spot and, space clear around me I crouch down into position fold my arms and begin, to the strains of the Village peoples YMCA, a faultless Russian cossack dance. At first I'm dancing the cossack dance completely unobserved but soon the other dancers become aware of my movements and turn to watch, one by one until the whole dance floor is looking my way, this ripple soon spreads to the remaining diners licking their plates at the tables and trying to drain that last drop from the free wine, they too move to the edge of the dance floor to watch. Soon a slow hand clap begins as the crowd witness my routine in full flow, Welsh Sarah starts up a chant of HOI

HOI HOI and that is taken up by the whole room, other guests at the hotel hear the commotion and begin to come into the room to see what's causing it. Bp's finest is now joined by Americans in

golf trousers all filling the room in a throng facing the dance floor and the one man who dances on at ever increasings speeds and complexity. A few spirited souls join in and, although they didn't practice like me they soon get in the flow, Ann from Chelmsley dances the cossack like shes been dancing it her whole life..............

And the night will live in legend both through bp and in local Cardiff folklore, the man who came and danced the cossack dance will never be forgotten at least until something better happens in wales......