Lessons in Humility (Part 2)

I’ve never been much of a dancer, I’m not sure how many left feet I have naturally but it’s definitely more than one, so imagine the joy and delight that swelled in my heart when I was first introduced to ‘Dance Fever’ the other day.

For the uninitiated, Dance Fever is a video game specifically designed to humiliate middle aged men. You start by registering your dance nickname (couldn’t think of anything for that, so we settled on the rather uninspired ‘Daddy’), then you go on to choose a suitable face (not quite sure why because you only get to see it when you’re presented with your score, but let’s run with it – my face was chosen for me by my three year old daughter, which is how I became Si the very handsome and remarkably chirpy hippo) and then, with little more than a ‘hold onto your hearing aid granddad’ you’re thrust into the perky, and verging on heart attack inducing, world of dance mimicry. There are dancers you see, dancers dressed in a variety of silly outfits, from tropical fruit, to 70s divas, to slightly disturbing badgers: dancers who cavort and gyrate on the screen to a number of modern classics, from Lionel Ritchie to Daft Punk and the Cheeky Girls. And the aim of the game is to copy said ridiculously dressed dancers, with game controller gripped firmly in ones hand (and safely secured to ones wrist to avoid unfortunate flingage), as they arm wave, fist pump, bounce, grind and jiggle their way from the start of the chosen song to its glorious end. For every fist pump and bottom wiggle you copy with perfect timing you get points and, through the eternity of the song, if your heart holds out long enough, you may accumulate enough of said points to win much coveted and highly valuable stars and then, at the end of the dance, irrespective of whether you’re still conscious or not, your score is totted up and you’re either labelled a five star dance master or no star dance klutz.

Okay, I thought, I can do this. I picked an easy one to start with: a slow moving duet with my beautiful daughter to George Michael’s timeless classic, Careless Whisper. So, there I was twirling and gliding around the dance floor like a modern day Fred Astaire when I was rudely interrupted by a hideous outburst from the sofa. I glanced across, mid pirouette, to be met with the sight of the doubled over figure of my wife as she lay shuddering with laughter on the cushions. What’s so funny? I thought. I shrugged, shook it off and turned back to the two figures twirling on the screen, determined to continue my quest for stars with renewed vigour. I gave 100, no 110%, as I channelled my inner disco titan. Fist pump. Arm wave. Shimmy to the left. Sashay to the right. I was almost literally proverbially on fire. One final arm raise to the heavens, a bow and I was done. A virtuoso performance I thought, as I slowly panted off the dizziness and rising nausea. There was a fanfare from the TV. This was it, the scores were in. The numbers accumulated for a second and then stopped. The hippo’s face looked slightly disheartened. What? One star! One measly, pathetic star! I nearly sprained every muscle in my body for one measly star! My three year old daughter managed two stars and she didn’t even know what she was doing 90% of the time. It was a mockery of my efforts. And to rub salt into my already gaping wound it announced that my dance style was ‘Wild’. Wild’s all flailing arms, black eyes and broken toes, not the vintage display of gracefulness I had just plucked from depths of my creative core.

Still, I’m not one to be disillusioned.

Right Dance Fever, brace yourself, you’re in for a treat. You’re going to witness dancing like you’ve never seen before, I think, as I load up the theme from Flashdance. Step aside Kevin Bacon, a new maestro has strutted onto the dance floor...

(Oh, and darling, pipe down, I can still hear you sniggering at the back...)