Alexi Duggins is at your mercy. This week he danced with a giant sandwich…
Interpreting emails: minefield. One reader suggests that Lunchtime Disco is an hour of ‘brilliant dancing lunch’. So I decide they must have missed out a ‘during’ after ‘dancing’.
Turns out I was wrong. Spend an hour at London’s ‘only daytime dance party’ and you are merely an extra in the tale of a rhythm-loving lunchtime staple’s dancefloor adventures: for as I decend into the basement of Shoreditch’s Book Club, the only occupant of the dancefloor is a giant foam sandwich. While the DJs spin funky ’80s electro and the room is lit entirely in clubby red light, the human occupants spend the first 30 minutes nattering over real burgers and falafel wraps.
Then Chaka Khan loudly announces that ‘I feeeeeel for yooooouuuu’ and, as one, the room decides that the feeling is mutual. A suited man leaps atop the sandwich and decides to pursue a vigorous policy of humping. Half a dozen women in party dresses clutch cocktails and wiggle gently on the outskirts. Apparently, the sandwich-humper takes this as a vote of confidence. He’s now pumping his groin so frenetically he could be Rihanna’s crotch double.
”Ladies and gentlemen¼ the sandwich!’ he announces as the song ends, gesturing to his dance partner. The man melts into the background and the sandwich is the centre of attention. The women on the outskirts pile in, grab it and hold it aloft. Ten minutes later, it’s become a double-decker. The extra layer consists of two bent-over office workers rubbing their backsides against it like itchy monkeys on a palm tree. Brings a whole new meaning to the term ‘butty’.
Unfortunately, it’s not long before our bready hero is alone again. One intrepid soul jumps in and starts flailing his legs around in a daring and challegning reinterpretation of the cancan. Suddenly, everyone else remembers a meeting they need to get back for. It’s well unfair, because I…erm, I mean, ‘he’ was really going for it. That, you see, is the problem with dancing like nobody’s watching: before long, everybody’s watching.
As the lights come up, the sandwich is alone on the dancefloor once more. It’s been quite a journey for that plucky little fellow. Such a journey, in fact, that it’s worthy of a Hollywood film adaptation. But what to call it? ‘You Make My Meal Like Dancing’? Bit naff. ‘Smörgåsbord of the Dance’? Nah, wrong kind of food. ‘Pump Up the Jam (Sandwich)’? Weak. Wait: I’ve got it. ‘Sarnie Night Fever’. Perfect. Except it’s at lunchtime, of course.