Never Meet Your Heroines

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on video on YouTube
Never meet your heroines,
Just leave them packed upstairs,
A reference section, an abstract ideal,
The stuff of dreams, not cares.

Long time the manxome foe Id sought,
While vorpal moves I learned,
Till one day I got our paths to cross,
On one dance the issue turned.

I knew her from the on-line screen,
A pixie-lated bundle of fire-cracking grace,
And in every detail of what I had seen,
I saw a match, inspiration, a dance that must take place.

She was on the floor with Mr Cool,
The music wild, but tacky.
She was laughing as he played the fool,
His moves both slick and wacky.

But it came to an end, my time was now.
If I didnt pounce then, then Id lose her.
I stepped up to the mark, made my intentions known,
That out of all on the floor, I would choose her.

She looked up and collected herself,
Peered at me as through a steel shutter.
Oh yes! The guy from England!
It was time to dance with the nutter.

Could any dance be expected to bear
The burden of such expectation?
I was bursting with hope, I had better do well
I was flying the flag for my nation!

It didnt start well, not well at all.
She was famous I was frightened Id lame her.
We had no connection, Id not got her weight,
And could this music be any tamer?

In my mind I berated the (recorded) band leader.
I was giving him kick after kick.
Give me something to work with, you great useless bleeder!
Interpretation is my major shtick.

There are men who spin faster or know fancier moves.
There are those who perform for the Queen,
But give me the music and Ill shuffle hooves,
And dance rhythms that shes never seen.

Adapt or die, adapt or die.
I had to try something new.
I tried to go heavy, but she didnt come with me.
Oh blimey! Now what do I do?

Do I break out my most spectacular move,
The one that I call The Killer?
No, theres not enough room on the floor,
And a crash is not going to thrill her.

Its time to get fast and fancy.
Got it footwork, thats it!
No, no response Ive seen more from a statue.
Its all going pear-shaped. Oh shit!

Her eyes view me mid-shin only,
And the number is ending, I fear.
I stoop to make contact, give a jazz hands wave.
Hello, yoo-hoo! Im up here.

In parts of the world, they dance just one song,
But here the convention is two.
She smiles, makes her excuses, is so gone,
Neglecting to leave a glass shoe.

Never meet your heroines,
Just leave them packed upstairs,
A reference section, an abstract ideal,
The stuff of dreams, not cares.


This is a not-wildly inaccurate account of something that actually happened to me. Fate was on hand to twist the knife when, crestfallen, I had left the dance floor and sought solace in a game of table football. As luck would have it, I found myself playing alongside Mr Cool. In what I am sure was a well-meant attempt at pre-match banter, he turned to me, slowly raised one eyebrow and said Do you feel like a loser?

Yes, I said.


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