Wedding season is in full swing, and yer da is taking full advantage of it, letting loose and getting crazy on three pints of Kaliber at your cousin's wedding:
Oh, no, sorry, my mistake: that's Jeremy actual Corbyn, the knackered-looking leader of the opposition, raising the motherfucking roof at what I am guessing is one of those weird events he keeps going to these days where somewhere between eight and 16 really pro-Corbyn lads in waistcoats all make a day of saying how much they support him while, distantly, in London, the rest of Labour variously says how much they don't, and I mean—
This time, Corbyn is in Sunderland, at a rally with a very strong 'every person in attendance here makes their own nut cheese' sort of vibe, where he is geeing up the northern troops with promises to build a 'Bank of the North' (literally the most Game of Thrones thing to ever happen in British politics, I mean it's a surprise Alfie Allen didn't pop up at the exact moment Corbyn said that and start yelling "THOU CANST BUILD A BANK OF THE NORTH W'OUT MY IRON", I mean honestly) and generally spreading good cheer with his sort of this-slightly-shabby-pet-is-actually-the-world's-oldest-ferret vibes, and then—There are four stages to Corbyn's dance, and we can break them down thusly:
NOT DANCING
Arguably, the most neutral state: music is playing, and Corbyn is stood there, and he's like: Yeah, it's music. I'm feeling it. But whatever. Look closely and you can see a single foot start to tap.
LOW-LEVEL BOOGIE WOOGIE
This is the fatal step, because when Corbyn brings in a head nod, a finger click and a tap, he is performing three rhythmic motions at once, and he has accidentally steered his body into the field marked 'dancing'. Once you accidentally dance in front of people – even for one fraction of a millionth of a second – you then have to commit to dancing, because the only thing more embarrassing than dancing in front of people is starting and then stopping dancing in front of people (people smell blood and act upon it, and being ashamed of your own dancing is like a power move of weakness, and Corbyn really doesn't need to take even a single L right now, and like if he starts then stops dancing then the Labour leadership is there for the taking, if Owen Smith comes out this weekend and does a perfect Night Fever backflip at a BBQ then he is fucked, I mean the race is over). Look particularly at his face: when the delighted and joyful laughter of the crowd whips him into a frenzied double fist-pump, tell me that isn't a man regretting every single agonising atom of his existence, a man with fine and lofty ideas who accidentally crushed them in a self-inflicted dance off;
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'COME THE FUCK ON THEN, CUNTS, LET'S BE HAVING YOU!'
This is where hubris overtakes him. At this point, committed to performing a multi-second public dance, Corbyn tries to make it a thing – get the crowd involved, liven this thing up, prove to the masses that this is Just A Bit Of Fun, Come On Guys, Let's Chill Out! But then he goes in far too hard and aggressive and essentially pulls the kind of motion that hard lads pull when you, many balconies up in a tower block, have wronged them somehow and need to be beckoned outside for a beating, I mean I'm pretty sure if Corbyn pulled this move in any late-night kebab shop-and-nightclub triangle tonight he would get absolutely, just breathtakingly decked, four or five fully grown men in jeans and boots just kicking him. This is a move of aggression. I'm calling this move 'The Quinoa Haka'.
OH CHRIST WHAT HAVE I DONE
And lo, reality sets in and Corbyn loses the groove, and he walks off, a little shaken, a little abject, the photographers closing in and the smile fading, and where are his advisors, where are they, why is nobody there with an arm around him to escort him urgently away and stop him from dancing—Obviously there are parallels to be drawn between Jeremy Corbyn dancing in front of a load of Mackems and life itself. The four stages of Jeremy Corbyn's dance eerily mirror the boom-and-bust emotional bell curve we all follow from birth through death. Jeremy Corbyn is a man peppered down by both intra-party attacks and cult-of-personality style full love, and in those crevices he is dancing, a beam of light against the darkness all around. But most fundamentally of all, look at him: who among us has not, ever, misjudged the tone of a room and bust for a pretty second into a dance move, before sadly slinking out of it again? It's too early at some pre-drinks, too late at a party, and you are there, one or two laps ahead or behind the rest of the room's buzz, and your leg folds down beneath you and you dance, you throw a jive, and then realise nobody is following, and try and parachute out of it. When you find yourself out tonight – a little post-work lager, maybe some prinks with the gals, you and the lads decking tins of cider on the night bus in all-new bomber jackets, hoping desperately to pull, none of you actually destined to pull – and you misjudge the room and go in dancing, look to Jeremy Corbyn, leader of the Labour Party. Look to him in times of trouble, and dance your way around of them.
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