Dancing in broad daylight?
When you’re an Englishman?
To horrible, touristy music?
Even though you pray “Not me, please, please not me…” knowing all the while that of course it’s going to be you, because, when The Other One (Alpha Bru) is not here, it’s always you.
With a group of local ladies clapping and gyrating around you?
In front of the assembled masses?
With people filming you?
You blush. You blush a nasty colour that clashes with your hair.
But you get up, you gurn, in the method made iconic, by dear old Papa (who never, ever had to do such a thing, BTW) and you grind away.
And it’s not good.
Not good at all.