What happens when your dancing days are over? When you jerk awake to find yourself on a dance floor - drunk (t'was ever thus) and surrounded by people half your age sniggering at some bald granddad making a penis of himself?

Oh readers, this epiphany happened a couple of weeks ago. After a heavy session in Brighton I 'found' myself on a dance floor staring at my feet realising that all sense of rhythm and dignity was absent and that I was a figure of ridicule. One foot moved. And then the other. And the arms kinda did their own thing. Neither timing nor beauty was achieved. Just lumpen dad dancing.

And thus mortified, my sober self came to a pact with my drunken self. Dancing; it's something I don't give a fuck about, anymore. Back in the day, you know, 16-30, if you wanted to meet a woman then the disco (club now grandad) was the place. And getting down on the dance-floor was where it was all at. I remember the days when porting a bottle of beer and cigarette on the dance floor was the height of cool (maybe shades too). And then the 'erection section'... That's the last dance to you young people, when the DJ would play a few slow ones at the end to facilitate the evening's romances.

But not anymore. You see, number one these days is my looks (clearly). Most women come onto me because of them. Naturally. But, for those that don't - few, weird - my major selling point is verbal. I wrap my partners in a blanket of humour, knowledge and experience. They know they'll be okay with me. Looked after. 

But dancing. It's no longer within my repertoire of seduction. I've retired this particular aphrodisiac. It's been growing in me for a while. Obviously my friends and I go to 'age appropriate' clubs these days. You know, basically late night bars with a small dance floor, a DJ and blokes in suits and girls of a certain age, not unaware that older guys might have a roll of cash on them. 

And yet. And yet. Maybe it's a place-time-mood thing. Getting down / strutting my stuff seems easier in the summer, feeling slim and wearing my mate Dan's Hartington floral shirt. Yeah, all over that like a rash. So, so, maybe, dancing is not yet in the Things I Don't Give a Fuck About just yet. If - like Glenn Miller - you're in the mood. Not pissed. Toned. With the right girl. Maybe I could bring this technique back from the dead. Show those youngsters how a 'Like a Virgin' era Madonna fan used to do it at Tiffs in Rochdale in the early 80's.

I'm conflicted. Aware that I could look like an arse but also aware that, in the right setting it's who you are, firstly, and then it's who you want to be. Some say your dancing style is analogous to your love making. I'm good. Sooo good. I got moves. Just a bit rusty, yeah. 

And that dear readers, is my take on dancing. And now some Shakey. My dance teacher.