Nil point for those prancing dancers

PAV’s PATCH: I really couldn’t let 2010 go by without mentioning one of my favourite comedies — the Eurovision Song Contest.

Actually, it’s not as funny as it used to be, even though I was impressed by the strange man who got thrown out for leaping on stage during the Spanish entry.

It was only when he was frogmarched away that I was 100 per cent certain he wasn’t part of the act.

No, what I want to talk about is dancers. Every Eurovision song seemed to feature a clutch of people gyrating in the most peculiar manner. What’s it all about?

I’ve said many times before, that culture is rather lost on me.

I can still remember being in a gallery of modern art in Madrid and wondering whatever all those people saw in an exhibit called “The Death of God”. It looked like a sheet of metal that had holes smashed through it.

You see when it comes to dancers, I could appreciate Pan’s People, and especially the blonde one, Babs. You couldn’t complain about a bit of shapely flesh in hotpants.

But why people — especially men — feel the need to do strange gyrating cartwheels is beyond me. More especially, why do men take part? And why was the mob backing the Greek singer all in white boiler suits and hobnail boots?

If I’m being honest, I’ll never understand why anyone wants to be a professional dancer or, indeed, an actor.

It all strikes me as the sort of stuff you might do for fun, as in putting on an amateur pantomime. But as a full-time job?

There again, what do I know about jobs? I’m nearing the turn-off to retirement and have hardly made a success of myself.

I used to laugh at a schoolfriend who worked in a job centre when I was a sports editor, except that he’s climbed the Civil Service promotion tree while I briefly got up a small ladder only to slide down a huge snake.

My friend gets to make lots of journeys to London and all with a first-class ticket. Well he did. The new Government has just robbed him of that perk so from now on he’s going to have to rub shoulders with common people on the delight that is a Virgin inter-city service.

As someone who loves names like Great Western and BOAC, I’m embarrassed to ride a Virgin train. Whatever possessed Dicky Branson to give a company such a ridiculous moniker?