With thanks to The Sprockets
I am a newly middle-aged white fat man.
I cannot dance.
Yet I persist.
Not proper dancing, mind. Dodgy what-I-think-is-funny dancing, like what I ambushed my parents with whenever they, exhausted from work and family, attempted a light hearted injection of current affairs via the route of four corners, and I'd leap out and dance in front of it and perform a manuever best described as an aborted mashed potato.
Whenever I attempt however to do The Robot theboy screams and points in horror, shrieking at the top of his little lungs 'NO ROBOT!'
Tonight Rhianna was on Graham Norton. She sang a song. It was pretty.
The urge to dance took me.
TheWife has an iPhone.
Yep, she started filming it. And, having experienced the sheer bliss that is an iPhone's technical capabilities in terms of quality of images in still and motion , I knew this dancing would likewise appear crystal clear and gorgeous.
I was doing a bit of rhythmic standing-on-the-spot-snake-shimmer then "glued" my fingers together and started worming out my hands.
'I felt the moment and thought "flippers' and then I totally went for it!' I said with generous enthusiasm, paraphrasing Bart from the episode where he's forced to sign of for ballet at school.
However as I danced, thanks to being a harry high, I could feel my PJ Bottoms starting to head for Tijuana. Since, as I wear them tied at maximum girth, if the pants slip then the waist of the pants no longer matches that of the gut.
And so the bottoms fell, my long shirt barely concealing my flaccid man-piece.
I turned away in order to pick up pants and my beautiful full moon bathed theWife's iFee lens and inflicted upon it a splendid shot of my ample glutes.
'Aw... ' said theWife. 'Now I can't use it.'
As I suspected ... that dance was headed for facebook.