Do you ever forget that one of the primary reasons for the continued existence of nightclubs is that people can dance inside them? Strange, isn't it, that we still have these basements and buildings on high streets and industrial-entertainment complexes where people pay money to exert themselves physically, as if controlled by a pilled-up puppet master. I mean, I couldn't tell you the last time I danced in a club, but there are still people out there doing it, and as long as there're clubs there'll be dancers.
This weekend just past, someone danced in a club. That someone was called Becca. That club was called Monty's. You remember Monty's don't you? Monty's, the Todmorden nightspot with an incredible eye for an eye-catching promo poster. Monty's, the small town every club. Monty's, the proud home of the fanny bomb. Montys, where this happened:
On Saturday night, Monty's witnessed a Shakesperean tragedy in action. Becca's attempted worm was a deeply sad sight, a masterclass in the elemental power of pathos, a devastating reminder that man is doomed to failure. I mean, yeah, you could argue that it's actually just a video of someone trying to do the worm really badly in the corridoor of a small club up north, but that'd be missing the point. Because it goes beyond that.
What's actually happening here, is the shattering of a dream. Becca decided to do the worm. In a club. In 2016. That's entirely her call, her decision, her use of whatever agency and autonomy we have left. If you want to do the worm, Becca, be my guest. Worm away. Worm around the club. Worm to your heart's content. Worm until you've ground the ground away. Doing the worm is strangely admirable. No one's done the worm for at least 15 years. And maybe, just maybe, there's a reason for that.
The reason why no one's done the worm for quite some time is simple: the worm is the worst dance move ever, ever, ever dreamt up. Think about it. Think about what doing the worm entails. Doing the worm means looking like you're a belted icepop fucking the floor. Anyone doing the worm automatically becomes the kind of person who whips out a diablo in the park, or juggles with tubes of Pringles at house parties. Wormers are people who share inspirational .JPGs on Facebook created by pages called Heal The World With Spirts. Wormers wear a lot of purple. Wormers think they look really fucking cool because they can pull off a move that sort of looks like a worm humping itself backwards. That's the kind of person a wormer is. This is a wormer:
And that's what makes Becca's worm so tragic. For a split second she must have thought that doing the worm in the club was a way of lifting everyone's spirits, a way of getting clubbers together in a show of harmony. It wasn't. Because the worm is such a high stakes maneuver that attempting it is instant social-death because it'll never look as good as the wormer thinks it will. And even if it's a solid worm, a decent worm, it's still that —a worm. No one likes worms.
Watching the video on repeat, which I recommend you do, it goes from You've Been Framed filler to an exploration of just how badly wrong things can go in a very short space of time. Firstly, Becca's worm is a sorry one. A really sorry, sad, pathetic little worm. A worm you'd happily tread on down the garden without a hint of remorse. It's that bad of a worm. Totally lacking in bodily flow, it's difficult to take it seriously as a piece of reactionary, improvisational choreography. Secondly, the bloke who enters the shot and blocks the worm is so painfully upright that you start to worry about him as a person: it's the kind of stiffness that only arises as a physical manifestation of extreme uncomfortableness. C'mon,mate, this is Monty's —stop worrying about a lass doing the worm on a dirty floor and get that fanny bomb down you! Thirdly, the moment when Becca's lifted to safety by a faceless punter, who appears to be clutching a newspaper is cut short so we'll never know just how he greeted her. Was it warmly, with big-hearted affection ("Silly sod!") or cold, steely annoyance ("Silly sod!"). Lastly, there's Becca herself, again, and more importantly, Becca's reactions. She glances up at the stiff man with a look of total and utter shame, the kind of shame that borders on degradation, the kind of shame that eats away at the soul for years to come, the kind of shame that sends your stomach into triple backflips. She then tries to smile at her potentially helper, but the smile's a false one, a smile the belies the sadness she must have been feeling as her worm was abruptly terminated. The dream was over before it ever began.
Becca, if you're out there —keep practicing. Keep trying. You'll get it right one day.