I'm your private dancer
A dancer for money
I'll do what you want me to do
I'm your private dancer
A dancer for money
And any old music will do
Well, that's all very well. If 'any old music will do' I'm getting onto the Turnip's agent and hiring her to do me some private dancing. Let's see her do The Birdie Song, The Cheeky Dance, Saturday Night, The Macarena, Agadoo and round it off in a pair of volumious trews and give it a bit of the old left/right Hammertime shuffle.
Shame she weren't in the city today, for I would've paid good money to see her joining that scourge of England... Morris Dancers. Oh, to see them recreate the Thunderdome, and wallop her in the mush with a bladder onna stick.
Yes, Kemp's Men are celebrating the birth of their Idol by dancing along to such hits as Gold, True and Through the Barricades. To cut a long story short, gangs of Musclebound Morrisers have descended upon our fine city, befouling the walkways with their stick clobbering shennanigans and assailing our eardrums with the tinkling of bells and the wail of accordions (although I'd prefer a cord around their necks. Or The Corrs. But not Jim.).
I really don't need this pressure on me when I'm out a-shopping!
