I CONSIDER myself a fairly anonymous-looking cove, who does not stand out in a crowd of more than three people.

Yet for as long as I can remember, when a performer on stage needs someone from the audience to join him on stage for a little ritual humiliation, they always make a beeline for me.

“Yes sir, you with the glasses trying to hide behind your wife... please come up and allow me to embarrass you totally by making remarks about your paunch, getting you to remove items of clothing or drink lager through a baby’s bottle.”

I went through a spell of refusing to abandon my pint, feigning illness or injury or pretending I was waiting for someone.

However, that tends to attract more attention that actually getting up on stage and getting the ordeal over with.

And so it was on a recent trip to Greece, when volunteers were sought to strut their stuff as belly dancers.

Although I have abundant assets to wobble, I made myself as small as possible, and shrank into a corner.

But the tasselled totty still hunted me out and drag me to my feet as the singers wailed and the bouzoukis tinkled.

I duly wiggled and wobbled, pirouetted and pranced, capered and cantered before noting with horror that Mrs Hextol was recording the whole sorry episode on her phone.

She put it on social media and soon total strangers were approaching me with tears in their eyes for a chortle and asked me when I would be appearing on Strictly Come Dancing.

I was dragged up to dance on a trip to Germany by a dirndl-wearing madchen who would not take my absence of lederhosen and little feathered hat as a no.

It was only when I trod on her feet three times as I gallumphed round the floor that she said with a disbelieving gasp: “You no waltz?” before returning me to my seat in disgrace.

The thing is, I can’t dance.

Even as far back as primary school, I was the partner none of the girls wanted when it came to country dancing, as I would often not only trip over but would bring them down too in an ungainly heap.

I was such a wallflower that Mr Mellor the caretaker used to come round and water me every week.

My Dashing White Sergeant didn’t so much dash as hobble and the least said about the Gay Gordons the better.

I thought I would gain some street cred when Chubby Checker set the world alight with the Twist, which had the advantage of not requiring a partner to perform with.

My sister told me what to do, but my version of the dance bore little resemblance to the performance of old Chubby.

A teacher told me I looked like a toddler having a tantrum.

One of the popular dance tunes of the mid 60s was The March of the Mods by the Joe Loss Orchestra, which involved lots of jumping and dashing around with linked arms.

The future Mrs Hextol and I were performing with much verve and gusto one new year on a packed dance floor in Stoke when I somehow lost my footing.

I pulled Mrs Hextol down with me, and the March of the Mods became the Collapse of the Mods.

Scores of people were overcome by the domino effect and toppled into a mass of writhing humanity in the centre of the floor.

My sister was watching from the balcony, and paused from sipping her Cherry B to tell her boyfriend: “I’ll bet anything you like that my brother was the cause of that...”

Salvation was eventually at hand when Mrs Hextol decided she was going to teach me how to jive, and surprisingly I took to it like a flat footed duck to water.

I could just stand there jiggling with raised arm while Mrs Hextol swooped and swirled on the end of it.

I wasn’t dancing at all – I left all the work to Mrs Hextol.

The technique served us well for many years, and we used to dance half the night away.

Now we are in our 60s we still do it on occasion, but don’t get up till halfway through Johnny B Goode as we only have enough energy for half a dance!

People are so amazed at the gyrating oldies that we often get a round of applause and on the odd occasion, a round of drinks!