Tuesday, August 31
Judging by the look of serene confidence, you would have thought him supremely at home on the dance floor. One glance at his palpitating body put paid to that. Arms swinging rigidly, shoulders tensed, head nodding, he exuded the aura of a hyperactive monkey. Turning to where I was dancing nearby, he looked me briefly up and down before an amused grin infected his face. The bastard. He was laughing at my dancing.
A swift Michael Jackson spin and ball-clutch later I was beside him.
“The lion walks alone.”
“Beware the cheese and onion crisps… for that way lies leprosy.”
“What the fuck are you on about?”
He had stopped dancing now, and was looking at me with aggressive bemusement. His whoopee cushion face was flushed with anger. He probably thought I was trying to come on to him.
It was at that moment that I unleashed my five-point exploding bowel technique.
I walked off, picking my way between the small ponds of innards that littered the dancefloor. And I say to you this: woe betide any monkeys that laugh at my dancing.