They say dance is the hidden language of the soul – if this is the case then Friday nights are all about learning to say rude words. Is there no greater relief from the cerebral shackles of modern life than cutting some serious lunch on the floor? While girls are so rhythmically infused they could dance to their own heartbeat, for men, like most things, it’s tricky. Strangled by their Straighty 180 collars and Blend It Like Beckham jeans, men love nothing more than to hover on the sides like out of work bodyguards, tapping along sheepishly, demonstrating that a fear of commitment isn’t limited to relationships. It wouldn’t hurt anyone to take dancing more seriously. Menfolk, listen up, put down the work boots and pick up the dancing shoes, the time for action is now – there’s murder on the dance floor and its women kicking our arses. I realise this is part of the problem – we don’t have arses! The song says shake your money maker, not sit on your bad assets.

For most guys, dance isn’t their first language. Leave them standing long enough in a nightclub and eventually their screen saver will activate. This is called the Terry Two Step. First shuffle left / then shuffle right / your arms shouldn’t leave your sides all night. Repeat until magically laid. What happened to all the ones we learnt in high school? The heel/toe polka, the pride of erin, the Mexican hat dance? It’s devolved into the Australian jacket dance, where blokes try and lure women by shifting around a stack of wallets. Break dancing will consist of tripping over as they walk to the bar while a frenzied pat down to find keys will be offered up as the macarena. The song says shake it like a polaroid picture, not fiddle with it like a digital camera! If the dance floor is musical speed dating then you’ve got to put your best club foot forward.

Shimmying is all smoke and mirror balls. Like most things in life, when in doubt, just act like you know what you’re doing. On the dance floor I become Captain Busy, throwing shapes and jamming genres together like Crunkenstein, the line between irony and earnestness up and down like a stereo equalizer. Spinning and kicking, sliding and dipping – i’m a mime routine of a horny octopus making soup on a bouncy castle. I enjoy the thrill of not really knowing what I’m doing, but thinking that I may appear like I do; the cosmic sex bluff of throwing some Napolean Dynamite VS Spike Jonze in the Praise You film clip spaz shapes with such rigour that they could be taken seriously, or better yet, sexily. Usually, this isn’t the case. I’ve been told that I make people around me dance out of time, like a rhythmic black hole. One girl said dancing with me was like being double bounced on a trampoline.

The urban discotheque can be intimidating. From the religious zest of the Nutbush to pro-am rockabilly swingers and Kate Bush interpretive rock eisteddfods, men can be forgiven for feeling trapped inside a show where they’ve missed all the rehearsals. What’s that saying? Every Good Boy Deserves Funk. Whatever your demographic I believe the mojo is within you, and there’s only one way to get it working again. Fellas, here’s a quick dance lesson from me: Move. Your. Fucking. Hips. Men have been blissfully unaware of their hips for centuries, yet wonder why they continue to groove like a depressed robot. The hip bone’s connected to the soul power. Once you’ve got your hips working then your legs will follow, and everything will gel. If dance is the language of the soul, then it’s worth seeing what your soul has to say. Sure, it might just be ‘shit…shit…shit’ but anything’s better than silence.