Truth is if the bass is loud enough anything can sound danceable. Regardless of whether you are young, hip, trendy or old, or are blessed with the coordination of a giraffechild. Proven without a shadow of a doubt by the middle aged dancer, red-dressed and booted, not to mention the pink tights and spangly hat.

The tune was murdered, bludgeoned by bad acoustics into the soul-destroying sound of a fire engine trapped in a blender. The world reached a new low as a solitary man, krony in hand, grooved in isolation on a shaky wooden chair, twisting his pint on a wallside bench.

Soul Man, a pensioner in a 5-year-old's body. He tapped, he grooved, he sung. Not so much square peg in round hole, only a drunken joiner would try that, just an inebriated old man who not only believed that he was lord of the dance, but one willing to demonstrate publicly that while most of the time you are stuck behind a slow-moving Punto crammed full of retirees, occasionally Michael Jackson's spirit will clamber inside an elderly Foster-drinker and turn him into the world's worst nightmare.

It wasn't just that I fancied a pint of lager, Spurs were losing 3-0 to some dubiously-sounding Swiss team that, for some reason that I could probably wikipediup, call themselves Young Boys, which doesn't sound particularly Swiss (whatever language they choose to use) and I felt that, as your typically emotional Spurs fan, I ought to turn up at the local and support the mighty Spurs.

Demise is probably a strong word, but I'm taking an extended blogging holiday. I'll leave the site up for now, but I just need a break and besides, there's football to watch, sun to soak and ice-cold beer to enjoy...

That's all folks. Don't know when or if I'll be back, but you know where to find me.

Clad in a shabby blue mackintosh, the elderly rogue slurped his John Smith’s in a spectacularly irritating fashion. With sensibilities as delicate as mine I am indisputably in a position to judge.

He would take mind-numbingly long sips, lasting for ten seconds flat, i.e. well over the average one second “beer sip threshold” and then, in a manner which implied a lifetime habit and decades upon decades of soul-destroying practice, he finished each monster slug with a peace-shattering slurp, all the while crossing and re-crossing his legs.

Angry I was, and fuming like the most polluting chimney in the darkest, dirtiest, dingiest corner of Glasgow.

The heartburn was kicking in, scorching pain ran through my chest, the airways were disrupted; it was worse than an Icelandic ash cloud.

I’d had hiccups for a full hour and this had, for some reason or other, led onto heartburn, which I get occasionally, usually when I’m stressed or breaking another world record for prolonged hiccups.

Today I'm writing all about The Perfect Male Mind at Jen's place.

The tussle-headed beast staggers towards me. Huge and clumsy, rigid and graceless, as uncoordinated as a drunken robot, more terrifying than a delinquent child of Frankenstein.

Its arms hang loose, muscular yet conspicuously useless, as if they are more accessory than functional appendage, the end-effectors limp and floppy, a pointless existence if you ask me.

Still, it carries on towards me, determined and decidedly furious. Unfortunately its legs still function, albeit awkwardly. It rocks about unsteadily, like a seasick granny on a sloping deck.

He stood there in solitude, uncertain and uncomfortable. Not actual solitude mind, the palace was packed, but it was as though, in his mind and awkward state of indecision, he was all alone.

Blue woollen jumper straight off the Marks & Spencer shelf, a checked shirt poking out the top and hanging out the bottom, the dishevelled look of chap who had reluctantly given in and allowed his wife to stock his wardrobe.

He had a paper with him, The Daily Mail, preciously hugged as though the world depended on its bold headlines and scaremongering drivel.

There I am, cross-legged on the sheepskin rug upon which my offspring – pretty, gorgeous, delightful – sprinkles her milk, raisins and nasal produce. Can of lager to my right, a couple of laptops in front of me, Blackberry to my left. The TV blares, Barcelona are playing Inter Milan. The game to watch, the game I’m not really watching.