Ok Ladies.....Jazz Box!

Young 'uns and old people, we're not so different after all you know. It might seem that we are; oldies might be a bit more wrinkly, a little bit more easily perturbed by the prospect of the local corner shop's hours being changed for example, but we ain't that different.

And never is this likeness more apparent than when you step foot into an exercise class called Dancercise. Hop into Studio 1 at 10:30 on a Tuesday morning and it's come one, come all. Ahh, yes: breathe in everybody, and let all ages join together in a bubbling mass of absolute bewilderment.

I had sort of envisaged a fairly youthful group, clad in combats and tight, ripped Punkyfish tops all nodding their heads to a bit of Beverly Knight. In actual fact, what I got was more Church Hall Charleston than Down With Detroit. How can I put this. Have you ever seen One Man and His Dog? You know when the sheep all get herded up, and they're knocking heads together, bashing into each other, legs flailing trying to follow what all the others are doing? That was basically the Dancercise class this morning. Except the sheep were baffled, middle age ladies and instead of running into pens, they were doing "jazz boxes" (don't ask me) around a room to a sped up CD of Now That's What I Call Samba.

This isn't a case of me ripping the oldies for not having rhythm. To be honest, I was just as flummoxed as them. In fact, if I hadn't been busy wiping the look of sheer amusement off my face and trying not to piss myself laughing in full view of the mirror, I think I'd have been as visibly unhappy as the 60 year old woman next to me. You should have seen her worried little face when the words 'extended grapevine' boomed across the speakers. At one point she confessed to me how "anxious" she was, how much she wanted to leave, but stayed because she didn't want to seem rude. And anyway, having seen me (a young'un) equally lost, it made her feel a bit better. Great. Just call me Twinkle Toes.

After 40 minutes and four converging routines, it became apparent that this wasn't a dance class, this was a special needs shack-out. A particular highlight was one of the ladies (standing at the front, near the speakers) tapping her ear and asking for the music to be turned down. It was hilarious. I was prancing around, flicking my legs, doing moves that had absolutely no semblance to what we were shown - and by the end I think we'd all given up. All except for the Smug Bastard. There's one in every class; the one who knows all the moves and performs them with added pizazz and flair. Her taking the whole thing so seriously made me grin with mirth even more. As the hour drew to a close, even the instructor began to lose the plot; forgetting the routine half way through over and over again until even Smug Bastard upped and left.

Jaaaysus. It went on for days. Eventually it ended, and you've never seen 20 people scarper so fast. Verdict? First time I've ever had sweats from tedium alone. Never again.

Next week, Tai Chi?