Kings of the D-Floor

Once upon a time, there were two dashing knights. They were Sir Nathanael, of the Western Deserts, and Sir Reb, of the questionable social skills and the land of llamas.

They had reached the end of a week of dragon slaying, damsel rescuing and "working for the man" (to use the parlance of the time) and found themselves "hanging out" (again, to use the parlance of the time) together one Friday night in the centre of the kingdom. Now, Sir Nathanael and Sir Reb didn't know each other particularly well at that stage, but they had heard rumblings and tales of the other's bravery and wit around the realm. So they decided to hitch up their steeds at Flinders Street stable and set off into the night to find a way to unwind after so many battles and missions throughout the week. 

The two knights sought out and found a local jester show and had themselves a few jollies. Filled with lulz, the two knights decided to continue on into the kingdom and enjoy some ale. After all, when there are no dragons to slay in the morning, why not sink some ale and talk of battles past?

So Sir Nathanael and Sir Reb clinked giant vessels of ale together and discovered very quickly that they shared a love of Justin Townes Earle (a minstrel from the North) and terrible jokes and also ale. Sir Reb knew Sir Nathanael was somewhat new to the kingdom, so decided to show him one of her favourite taverns. After all, new knights ought to know of the best taverns in the kingdom. And so, Sir Reb took the other knight to the famed D-Floor of Cherry Bar, known throughout the land for being conducive to Excellent Times.

As they entered, they could see the Party Times were at a minimum, but were undeterred. These two brave knights had conquered far more solo than a lacklustre D-Floor - who knows what they could do as a pair in battle?

Cherry Bar soon found out. Despite their gold pieces running perilously low, the two knights sank some more ale and upon hearing some rock n' roll tune from days gone by, Sir Reb dragged Sir Nathanael onto the D-Floor.

And so it came to pass that the pair discovered another shared skill and fondness for ridiculous dancing. They pretended to be animals, they flailed, they jumped around, they shimmied and twisted. Jazz hands were involved. Soon, having built up the requisite cojones for such a move, they jumped onto the stage and continued their truly stupendous display of uncoordinated Good Times and Excellent Moves. Even though the night was warm and the lights were bright, Sir Nathanael and Sir Reb did not care that their suits of armour were getting really fucking sweaty and slightly gross. Nor did they notice that as they danced and laughed, a crowd was building around them. A host of other maidens and knights and townsfolk joined them on the stage and on the dance floor. They had successfully Got the Party Started.

Buoyed by the validation from the crowd and the killer tunes being spun, Sir Nathanael and Sir Reb agreed unspoken to Upping the Fucking Ante. Nathanael hung from the rafters, trapping Reb in his legs. Reb danced with a sand bag over her head. Reb tried to hang from the rafters then realised she wasn't sober enough to be trying something like that. So they threw a milk crate around and spat bits of lime at each other. Nate was carried, victorious, over the heads of the townsfolk. As they began to dance a la Fantastic Mr Fox, a group of others on stage joined in. It was excellent.

Finally, Sir Reb jumped offstage to hit up the bathroom (after all, there had been quite a bit of ale involved). As she walked through the tavern, she noticed everyone looking at her strangely. Not in a "Oh shit, that knight just lost that jousting match", but more in a "Oh shit, that knight just fucked up that dragon" kind of way. Which was awesome. 

Sir Reb returned to the D-Floor, feeling victorious. She felt victorious until she noticed her shoe had broken, which was incredibly disappointing because she'd just purchased them from one of her favourite stores in the kingdom, Gorman. By that stage however, not even a fucked up shoe could dampen her mood so she boogied on with an almighty fucked-up-shoe-limp. They kept on ripping it up and crowd surfing and hanging from the rafters and pretending to dance like small marsupials. 

And so, at the end of the night when the two knights had sweated in their suits of armour a little too much (suitably gross) and they left the tavern, they walked up the lane to high fives and a bunch of applause.

Songs would be sung and tales would be told throughout the land, of the Bravery and Super Skills of Sir Nathanael and Sir Reb, songs and tales passed down through generation to generation. For that was the night they became Kings of the D-Floor, and that shit was Fucking Epic.

Times I have enjoyed dancing.

This is the way I think people look at me when I dance. 

I envy the way some people - so many people - manage to look graceful as fuck or sexy as hell when they're shaking their booty/what their mother gave them/their moneymaker/their tail feathers on the ol' D-Floor. For me to jump up and flail my limbs with gay abandon (because I can't help that think "dancing" is too loose a term to use ... "flail my limbs" seems far more accurate), a number of things need to have occurred before that. I need to have consumed a number of alcoholic beverages. That, or I need to have been inspired to leave my seat/corner in which I stand clutching my beer by a song that can't not be danced along to. By this, I mean I need to hear "Blue Monday" or "Dancing in the Dark" (I'm serious) or some sort of surf rock classic (or Patsy Cline, but honestly when is that ever going to happen?). If the two of these things happen concurrently thanks to some fancy footwork (see what I did there?) amongst the stars' alignment, then you've got yourself a gosh darn tootin' dancing Reb.

That being said, you'll have a dancing Reb, but you're sure as shit not going to have a graceful Reb. I've grown to accept, dare I say it, I've grown to embrace how dorky I am at most given moments. More often then not, I'll be saying something awkward, or getting tangled up in my own bag, or be tripping over something. But still, even while I've come to terms with my dorkiness, I can't help but feel self-conscious a hell of a lot of the time I happen to find myself dancing. As a result, I always find it worthy of noting in my brain the moments in which I manage to have myself a rip-snorting unselfconscious boogie. The moments in which I'll still most likely be getting looks that seem to ask "What the hell is that girl trying to do? Is she in the throes of a conniption?", but I won't give one iota of a shit about it.

Behold, the first of a few examples of times I have enjoyed dancing.

1. With Alice. 

I'd say "With every one of the Uni Girls", but it'd be a crime not to single out dearest Alice in particular for closer analysis and praise. When Alice dances her long limbs sail through the air, her hair whips around and seems perpetually suspended mid-air. She manages to look slightly mesmerising throughout every song, an incredible balancing act between endearingly sexy and absolutely hilarious. So much so that our pal Immy has at one point even drunkenly felt the need to remind Alice that "subtlety can be sexy too". During a discussion in Mornington a couple of weekends ago, it was decided that Alice's animal equivalent was not so much the giraffe we'd always thought was appropriate, but that she could be more accurately described by way of a llama. 

"Well, it's got these kind of graceful long limbs,
but the rest of it's pretty dorky"

The weekend after I got back to Melbourne, we found ourselves at the Toff in Town, in a dance floor barren when usually we'd be surrounded by fellow revelers. The DJ was spinning Wings. That could have turned into a fun-impeding problem, as much as I do enjoy myself a bit of McCartney. Not so however, given the company I was keeping. It was time to Get It Done. I felt like I was back in Melbourne in earnest at last. If Journey Night out with the Girls were a film, it wouldn't be complete without a montage of us jumping, flailing, with hair flapping, fists pumping with little to no regard for what people around us could possibly be thinking. Legs and arms and hair being thrown every which way. Glorious. 

Last night I caught up with a friend of mine, a guy I met in Chile who returned to Australia about two weeks ago. I convinced him to come out with the girls and I after our initial catch-up beers were consumed. True to form, we ended up trouping over to the Toff. It has to be said that the expression on his face when "Backstreets Back" hit the speakers and we hit the dancefloor was one between utter confusion and extreme amusement. While we jumped around and screeched along and did our best boy band-esque moves Steve alternated between an applaudable effort to join in and complete puzzlement. 

Artist's impression.

What was noteworthy about that particular night was the fact that I completely forgot how awfully dorktastic and awkward I look when I dance. I couldn't possibly ever dance in any way remotely close to "sexy", so I suppose that's why I enjoy dancing completely outrageously. When I'm attempting the former, I'm fairly sure my facial expression is one of intense concentration mixed with concern and maybe pain, while my feet shuffle around and my hips move completely separately and my arms don't know where to go ... I can't imagine it's particularly attractive. Any occasion in which I forget to be completely self-conscious about how alarmingly awkward I look on the dance floor, it's a unique moment worthy of celebration. 

And that is why it was a time I enjoyed dancing.