Archive for April 8th, 2019

Paul’s Drunken Dancefloor Nightmare

Monday, April 8th, 2019

I seem to get a bit creative whilst usually travelling alone and this is my latest “work” that I came up with whilst touring around Beirut and Amman. It’s a hopefully amusing story about my friend Paul at my future wedding, whereby he will be one of the groomsmen. He does not like to dance in public.

“Right! Now it’s time for Paul to dance”, announced Ben Hall over the microphone.

“No freaking way!”, was the curt reply, “that wasn’t part of the bargain, you cretin!”

“No!”, said Ben Hall sternly, “I was Best Man”, then pointing at Small Ben, “he’s done a song, so YOU have to dance!”

“Yeah dance gay boy”, hollered Mr.Benti.

“Yeah go on”, shouted the Rachel.

“Oh Just dance”, Della stated in agreement.

Confused at the popularity of the request, but resolute as always, Paul continued to refuse. Unfortunately, this wasn’t going to be quite good enough for the crowd and tensions soon escalated as cries of “just dance mate” in Kiwi accents echoed around the room. Several folk stood up and started to form a circle around the area he stood, somebody started a slow clap. Bronwyn looked uncomfortable and tried to deter people, but they weren’t having any of it. The clapping gained momentum and sped up, shouts of “Dance Dance Dance” punctuated the air. Soon an entire 150+ people were clapping, whooping and cheering for a performance!

Paul’s temperature started to go into overdrive and his face turned a shade of sunset red. Oddly though he found himself frozen to the spot!

The truth was Paul’s pal Paul Mutimer had advised him to down a pint to settle his nerves before the church service, so he’d gone to Wetherspoons early and done that. Stupidly he’d txt’d James and Ben Hall to let them know and they decided to join him, so another pint was had. Then he’d been given several glasses of Prosecco on arrival at the hotel, he was not a wine drinker by choice, but was buoyed on by the previous 2 pints. Bronwyn’s dad then bought him another pint for doing such a good job ushering people. This was followed by another from Fiona of the tennis club. Martijn showed up at the bar next and blackmailed him into number 5 by talking about how the English can’t drink compared to the Dutch. Finally Bronwyn’s Welsh Uncle had forced another 2 upon him in rapid succession as, “Come on you, it’s a wedding and they’re on me! Quick drink up!”.

Due to this small quantity of alcohol and not liking the food much, Paul’s brain was overridden from regular panic attack mode and instead a swirling fog of alcohol-fueled confusion began to engulf him. Unable to fathom a direct escape from the baying and dance hungry mob, desperation prevailed! He lunged to freedom across the floor, but involuntarily his legs splayed out in random directions, as his shoes slid on the polished tiles. He found himself kicking and lurching to the sides, like a Russian Kossak, as the only means to stay upright. Unfortunately as soon as his legs were straight they felt like wobbly jelly and the action repeated itself. The band had begun playing Dancing Queen and some kind of strange subconscious out of kilter ability to sync balancing his legs with the beats of the music occurred. A huge cheer erupted and Bronwyn’s niece leapt into mischievous action. She pushed Paul’s arm so he kind of spun to the side. Others surrounding him found this highly amusing and joined in, spinning him around and around like a whirling Dervish. Despite everything Paul was actually relived to be standing upright unaided, so mustered a kind of semi-grin! After a minute or two they all backed off and Paul steadied himself and promptly half fell over grabbing the nearest table to balance himself. It looked like he was bowing! Tumultuous Hoorays filled the building. The end!

All I can say is, Michael Flatley eat your heart out, you no good lightweight! Lolol

by James (8th April 2019)


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