We sit in the pub with a post-salsa glow and I sip my refreshing pint whilst listening to my female friends discuss our recently completed class.

“My god, that instructor moves so well!” points out female-friend-number-1 a little too enthusiastically.

“I know, he’s like a rock, and when he moves, you can’t help but go with him…” agrees female-friend-number-2 breathlessly.

I look at my pint intently and consider the implications they are implicitly implying. So what if I am not like a rock on the dance-floor? Clearly, I am not a professional dancer. I am a professional desk person. I bet that I can write an email quicker than he can, and I bet I could decipher a forecast spreadsheet quicker than he completes his warm-up Suzy-Q’s.

Yet, despite the obvious evolutionary benefit offered by my superior skill set, no hot-and-sweaty women want to fawn over me. This is where Charles Darwinism falls down in my opinion. The world is a seriously unfair place. Someone should tell the children.

My current position seems even more unfair when I realise that in South America, where Salsa dancers are ten a penny, there are probably loads of sexy women sitting in a pub discussing the latest computer literacy class they’ve been to.

“That instructors fingers are so dexterous, he types so well!” whispers hot-latino-number-1.

“I know, he is at one with his computer, my partner Rico thinks Powerpoint is a dance move! Ha!” mocks hot-latino-number-2.

They would all sit there sipping cocktails, day-dreaming about spending time with a pasty Englishman and his laptop, whilst their other men dance around on their own like gyrating love-gods. A man with my skills could seriously clean up in such an environment.

I could be a God.

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