Some are born dancers, some admire dancers and some have dancing thrust upon them by a sweating, catsuit-clad, mad eyed banshee.
Thumbs for Hire is one such banshee. I love dancing. I love it more than dogs love lampposts.
But apparently, dancing isn’t just a careless jitter in the jungle, oh no. Dancing a serious business, especially when it comes to the mating rituals of the natural world. Observe:
The New Guinean birds of paradise like to shake it like a polaroid picture in their own specially swept dancefloor, to the decidedly lukewarm reaction of their dowdy brown mates.
The fabulously names ‘Boobie’ seabirds do a kind of slow shoe shuffle, pointing their coloured feet at each other across the crowded nestfloor (until the female is wound up into such an uncontrollable fit of passion that she lets rip from the toes up).
Male wolf spiders (ugly things, I can tell you) slowly raise their forelegs in the air, like geriatric ravers, as part of the courtship ritual. Sadly, this is the sort of wolf spider equivalent of shouting ‘I’ve got shit loads of money on me right now’ in the middle of Gotham City, so they quickly get picked up by predators. For the wolf spider, the sex or death conundrum is a bit of a stinker.
Bees, as we all know, throw down some quite excellent moves when describing the best spot to hit up on some pollen.
Even fish get in on the act. Siamese fighting fish do the most amazing impression of bitchy ballroom dancing queens as they twirl their multi-coloured fins around each other making something called an ‘egg bubble’. Sexual.
Of course, my dancing never had anything to do with attracting a mate. I mean, not many men are drawn in by the sight of a grown woman playing her own leg as an air guitar. Even fewer are attracted by an inadvertent elbow to the face as she throws her hands skywards, belting out Petula Clark’s ‘Downtown’.
No, for me, dancing is purely platonic.