Bust a move

It was my first day back at work today and I am delighted to say that it wasn’t nearly half as bad as I was expecting. 

A trip to Aberdeen required postponement, which is no hardship as it meant that I got to see my children tonight, rather than waiting until Thursday.

I listened with great interest to the debate on Radio 2 at lunchtime regarding the recent throwing of some shapes by Michael Gove in an Aberdeen club. It is something to which Mr Oons had alluded in his comment on my own dancing at the weekend, so I had to look it up and see what all the fuss was about.

From the outset, I wish to be clear that I am no fan of Mr Gove nor anything he stands for and normally struggle to say his name (for fear of accidentally summoning him) nor utter it without being prefaced by a swear. Please keep this in mind as I choke down the bile to admit to a grudging respect for his decision to turn up at a club (on his own) and cut loose on the dance floor. Being in no position to judge the quality of his dancing, I will defend to the death his right as an older man to do so. 

Having looked as big a charlie as Gove did, when on Saturday night, I strutted about, pouting my lips and doing my best to move like Jagger to ‘Honky Tonk Women’, I also remember the feeling of sweet release, as the alcohol opened up the gates to let the music flood my dancing soul and power my restless feet (there may have been some hip action going on too.) You know what? I looked like an idiot, but I couldn’t have cared less and it felt great!

It’s been too long since we were able to get together and in unison tear it up to the strains of our favourite tunes. Beat Mr Gove up (metaphorically) for many things, such as his inability to clap like a normal person, an eminently punchable face and yes, for the dancing itself, but not for his desire to get out there and bust a move.

Here’s me attempting one. It’s either a homage to Michael Jackson or “Oh, there’s those car keys I’ve been looking for!”