I seem to have misplaced my Mojo.

I'm sure it was around here somewhere. I had it not that long ago, but I turned my back for a second and it seems to have disappeared. I'm not sure who'd want to take my Mojo (I can't really see that it would be of any use to them) but it's definitely gone.

Well, to be honest I hadn't used it for quite a while. Maybe it just withered and fell off.

I only really noticed this weekend, you see I had been invited to a Stag Night.....


Those of you that have read previous posts will know that I don't really DO manly, macho, blokey-chap stuff. I'm not a fan of football, I champion Goths, I prefer reading comic books to lads' mags, I cannot drive (more on that later), I find Top Gear really annoying and would much rather walk around an art gallery than visit a lapdancing place.

So the idea of a Stag Night with a bunch of men (proper ones too, manly men) filled me with dread.

It's also not that long since that I split from my beautiful ex-girlfriend, so the idea of cheering on someone else's far-more sucessful relationship filled me with unwarranted resentment towards happy couples.

It's not an attractive admission, but it's honest.

I'm sure we've all days where we think "Oh well-fucking-done you. Bra-vo..." even though our friends are just trying to help.

Anyway, I saw the intinerary. The morning was to be spent doing archery with longbows - well, that's not too bad. A bit chappy-man-bokey but at least it's not 5-A-Side footie or touch-rugby or something.

After that, they had booked some off-road driving in a bunch of 4x4's. Well, that's me out then.

I have never sat in the right-hand front seat of a vehicle since my Dad took a picture of me as a chubby baby in his old Morris Traveller. In fact, the only vehicle I've ever operated, apart from my bicycle, is a dodgem car. I don't know much about off-road 4x4 driving but I'm pretty sure they wouldn't want me spinning the steering wheel all the way round so that it all drives in reverse?

I had visions of that scene in Father Ted where Father Dougal does a funeral...

Good luck getting your deposit back after that, lads!

So, instead I chose to meet the fellas later on, when we would go out for a meal & drinks.

The restuarant was about as blokey a place as I have ever seen. It had broken pallets on the wall, a full cow's hide on another wall, the room was like an old vault and the massive table seated all 13 of us facing in on one another.

The menu also consisted of meat. Almost exclusively meat. Ribs, steaks, chicken, shredded beef, etc...

(I think there was some coleslaw on the side, but it remained untouched...)

All we needed were goblets and Viking hats and we'd have been set!

But, thankfully, this wasn't one of those Stag Nights where everyone gets dressed up.

Well, not everyone....

Just him.

As the beer flowed the fellas told me about their archery prowess (firing their arrows with terrifying accuracy at face-masks of the groom-to-be), their strange driving instructor ("he lost his hand in a wine-making accident..." ?!?) and playfully argued about who was the Best Best Man...

It turned-out that all of us (bar two) had been someone's Best Man - but only one of them had been a Best Man four times. Four times!

And they were all still together.

That's four-for-four.

Best Best Man ever!

This wasn't too bad. They were all blokes, manly-men an' all that, but I guess as we're all of a certain age that desire to act like an idiot on too much shandy has largely abated.

The bill came and as we debated leaving the Stag to pay the bill (it would be easy to ditch him, I pointed out, "he can't catch us he's a Gingerbread Man..." ) we planned the next couple of places to visit - the oldest pub in Leeds and then somewhere to watch a six-foot biscuit get his groove on.

This is when I realised I had lost my Mojo.

Maybe it's the booze, maybe it's my age, maybe it's the combination of the booze at my age but I've started dancing like my Dad. All finger-pointing-in the air and rocking-back-and-forth from one foot to the other.... it was awful.

I used to love dancing, you couldn't get me off the floor, pogo-ing, headbanging, breakdancing, soft soul-shuffles I could turn my hand to any of them. You know that saying "dance like no-one's watching"?

Well, that's exactly what I would do.
Lost in music. Caught in a trap.
No turning back.

Lost in music.

But now it's much more difficult as everyone IS watching. I was watching.

In a crowded bar, with my new friends, swigging pints and getting rounds I started watching this clumsy, fat, unco-ordinated idiot for about 5minutes - "What an embarrassing prick" I thought. "He should be at home with his cocoa & slippers..."

Then it hit me.

I was looking in a mirror.


Maybe I always did. You see, in my head I think I danced like this:

 Whereas I have photographic evidence that I actually danced like this....

Good God.
Maybe it's not such a bad thing I got rid of my vinyl?




This has to stop.

No more boddypopping, no hand-jiving, no robot-dancing, and absolutely no big-fish-little-fish-cardboard-box. None of it.

In the words of Genesis...  I can't dance.
Or, as Nat King Cole would probably tell me, let's the face the music and stop dancing!


Or perhaps just a little bit after the Reception....?

There's bound to be a disco...

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1 comment:

Dollydaydream said...

You're dancing, yes? Which means you don't give a fuck? How PUNK is that?

Consider yourself cool.