These Men Without Hats tell me it’s safe to dance, but I’ve had ten hip replacements and Gertrude, my nurse, says I can’t Shim Sham Shimmy or Buzzard Lope anymore. It’s a shame too. ‘Cause back in my day I was a fantastic dancer. They called me “Thad BAD” and “‘ol lighting legs Thaddeus.”

Recently, I saw the most amazing dance by England’s Deus Ex Machina, Peter Crouch. The lanky forward’s body is as inexplicable as his dance. Watching him gyrating with mechanical, artificial angles and awash in raw emotion reminds us of the domination of industry over human interests.

Another fine dancer is the young Clint Dempsey from the US. His shoulders and hips dip and sway as a representation of alienation and anomie he felt as a poor kid in Texas. He’s finding his way and his dance. Marvelous! I am told to expect lots of dancing at Emperor Wilhelm’s Cup of foot-ball. I hope so. I love it. I may even be moved to Black Bottom when Gertrude isn’t looking.

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