WE STILL BELIEEEEVE... WE STILL BELIEEEEVE...
The epic tomes of English footballing past ring in my ears like it was only yesterday.
IT’S COOOMING HOME, IT’S COOOMING HOME...
Mental images of pot-bellied Three Lions fans crying into their lager.
FOOTBALL’S COMMMINNG HOOOME!
Naturally, of course, it didn’t; the pinnacle of world football is still very much abroad, just like good weather, authentic paella and dodging rampaging bulls in the home of the current international champions, Spain. That, however, is neither here nor there. The reason nostalgia drags me back to 1990s catchy football songs is because, upon retrospection of some old family photo albums, I found a particular picture of me japing about with my dad at a family birthday party. This was nearly fifteen years ago remember, so expect iffy 90s clobber and floppy David Beckham bowl cuts before he got too trendy.
Put quite bluntly, the way we’re dancing makes us look cataclysmically smashed. Bearing in mind I was 7, I’m guessing I hadn’t been on the voddie. Although I wouldn’t put it past my parents to dose me up with liquor, as long as I shut the f&$k up and fell asleep, something suggests to me that it was the mere exuberance of the occasion which makes me look like I’m swaying about. Oliver Reed, eat your heart out. I can almost hear me leaning into my pops to mumble “you’re my bessshhht maaaayte you are”... *shudder*
Nevertheless, the ease in which my dad jives about like a demented ballet dancer is astounding; clearly, he was dancing/spasming everywhere in a self-deprecatory way to ensure his young son felt no embarrassment when being a smoothie on the dance floor. Unless... No, surely, it cannot be! No, come on, I’m being stupid. Without doubt he doesn’t actually bust a groove like that. But then again, in the picture he IS attempting a new age can-can with his arms mysteriously flexed, inviting all of his ancient aunts for a view of the Gary Young guns show. Was I merely a convenient vehicle for him to showcase his body-popping, break-dancing, hip-thrusting, bicep-curling, ‘jazz hands’ routine?
The origins of the peculiar cult of ‘dad-dancing’ are unfortunately ambiguous... Saying that, I can quite readily imagine a senior Neanderthal getting woozy off excessive mammoth meat, before collapsing in a hairy heap as he tries to perfect the Macarena. I expect there is such a phenomenon as humiliating ‘mother-grooving’, yet as women tend to be a lot more subtle and less idiotic than men, it’s a great conspiracy that’s kept under wraps. Like the Stonemasons, or the Bermuda Triangle.
Cordially, I invite you to enjoy/tolerate the following clip. Such a sterling example of big poppa booty cannot and will not be ignored by this blog: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MaaG66xGfDg
Casting my reminiscing eyes back to the photo once more, several other distinct impressions begin to form; firstly, my hair is awful (no change there then). Secondly, all of the adults are decidedly thinner. Not quite Auschwitz survivors, but certainly substantially less podgy than in their present chubby forms. Overwhelmingly, however, the look of unabated joy in my dad’s eyes is infectious, charming even.
Then I think of my grandmother’s 80th birthday party just before Christmas, when Gary got up to grind to Sade’s ‘Smooth Operator’... And how I decided to join him, happily, willingly and eagerly. Several bottles of Corona naturally encouraged this noble and brave decision.
Even so: the humble tradition of embarrassing ‘dad-dancing’ looks set to continue for at least one more Young generation to come.
Danke. x
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