Never respect a man who can salsa

I’ve never really been one for hen nights. The prospect of being forced to wear sparkly willies on my head and the “you must have fun” attitude makes me go cold.

Groups of them stream out of clubs in the early hours, cackling manically, acting like harrassing strangers is ok, just because they’re wearing a white veil and L plates (aside: why L plates… they’re not learners. If they were going on their first date, then maybe. But hell, they’re getting married, you’d think they’d know what they were doing by that stage in the relationship!)

The hen “day and night” I went to on Saturday was an amalgamation of the best and worst. The good. Twenty intrepid explorers went on a treasure hunt of sorts. Things we had to find included the bride, a man in uniform (hoorah!) and the other teams. We then trooped to the pub and watched the rugby* and drink a lot of beer. And cider. And other things.

And the bad? We made our way to Charing Cross (not the most salubrious of surroundings you might say, and you’d be right) to a nightclub/bar where we were to learn Salsa. 13 hungry hens (not including ours) had already descended into this pit of despair. Around the dancefloor, swarthy, sweaty, Spanish types peered through the gloom, picking out their victims. The air was heavy with the smell of Lynx (probably). The words “meat market” sprang to mind.

I bumped into a friend with her new boyfriend, I idly watched them (as all around me scoffed the worst tapas known to man – think a tortilla chip and a spare rib followed by overcooked chicken).

The couple were dancing on the edge of the dance-floor. Not your normal shuffle-your-feet-and-windmill-your-arms dancing. No, salsa dancing. They looked like they were having fun. He span her around. She dipped. They did that whole swaying thing with their bums as they did the forward and back footstep jobbies. I almost envied her. But then the thought struck me… could you ever find a man who could salsa, sexy? To me, it’s just a bit too… desperate.

Aren’t they trying a bit too hard? Throwing away their natural man-dance lack of talent and bucking the trend? Shouldn’t they be stood round the dancefloor scoffing at the girls dancing with each other while their mate (the “mad” one) attempts to chat up a whale on the other side of the room?

Give me a man who can down a pint, sing rugby songs very loud and doesn’t mind the fact that I tend to get beaten up over the weekend (while playing rugby, not by him) and I’m a happy bunny. Which is just as well really since that’s exactly what I’ve got.

Never respect a man who can salsa.



* on which I am not commenting. If anyone talks to me about the rugby, I will disown them, delete their bookmark and jump up and down on the spot in protest. Although, for what it’s worth, I don’t think BA should be sacked. Yes, he made some hideous decisions with selection (Iain Balshaw, really?) but it’s the players who have to perform on the day. And they didn’t. At all.