Andy Richardson: Dance don't fight!

Proudly, he pushed his chair away from the table and rose like an emperor addressing his public. His arms extended, like Pete Townshend flailing windmill limbs against a helpless Gibson. His voice boomed, like Olivier at The National. He was in full flow; his was a story to savour, like a bottle of vintage Petrus.

Before I recount it, I ought to give you a little background. My friend is one of life's great raconteurs. He's a charismatic character who drives a six-litre monster car with the commitment of Donald Campbell attempting the land speed record. When he has an idea, he pursues it to the nth degree. Try telling him you can't fly a teacup and saucer to Mars without any fuel or space suits and he'll tell you you're just a black-hearted pessimist. Tell him you're trying to anchor his ideas in reality and he'll scoff: 'anchors are meant to be dragged'.

Nothing and no-one will get in his way. He's determined never to grow old and if and when his time comes, he plans to go out doing a jig. He greets people with bear hugs that might crush the ribs of lesser souls. And his rambunctious energy enthuses those around him; spending time with him is like plugging into the National Grid.

Emboldened and standing erect, he began his story.

My friend – we'll call him Will – had just returned from a holiday: he'd been in Spain, since you ask. He'd had fun in the land of sunshine and sangria, gorging on bonhomie and making the most of siesta time. And when he'd come to the end of his allotted 10 days, he did what all rule-breaking, authority-defying, free spirits do: he called the airline and told them to switch his flight for one three days later.

"Why go home when you're having fun?" he said.

I ventured: "Work . . ?"

"I own the company."

He had a point.

On one hot, early autumn evening in Spain, he'd been on the balcony of his hotel, enjoying a glorious sunset and taking in balmy air. He'd been drinking a sundowner, or eight, and was as happy as a vegetarian at a mung bean seminar. As evening turned to night, his geniality became a warm, fuzzy glow. He turned to his partner and suggested they turn the stereo a little louder, all the better to dance on the balcony, as you do. And so they frugged, threw shapes and lived it large; becoming caught in the moment as the wee small hours extended ever further.

At 2am, their dance was illuminated by two bright lights.

"Brilliant," thought my friend. "We're having such a good time that they're shining the spotlight on us." He danced with ever more vim. His partner, however, sensed danger. The illumination was not emanating from spotlights. "Will," she said. "It's torches." The men holding them were wearing smart blue uniforms that said: 'seguridad' on the arms. "Oh my god, somebody's called security."

As the security guards flashed their torches on and off, making a sort of YMCA-era strobe lighting effect, my friend danced determinedly on. The guards shouted something in Spanish.

"Er, Will," said his partner, "we ought to go inside . . ."

They retreated for a little while my friend surveyed the other balconies to determine who might have reported him. "Music is the spice of life, come on, let's live," he hollered into the dusky Spanish night.

He wasn't done yet. Once the seguridad left to trouble others who might actually have been doing wrong, my friend returned to the balcony. He did what all drunken men do at 2am on Spanish balconies: a tap dance. Raising his hands to the side, making like Fred Astaire, he cut loose and let his toes do the talking. Rather than lose his temper, he danced. Isn't that good? DanceRage to kill the killjoys.

I wish I had my friend's style. The closest I ever get to public displays of anger is looking through narrowed eyes at the guy in Tesco who bumps his trolley into my legs while I'm next to the closed cap mushrooms. I guess he just doesn't look where he's going. Or maybe he thinks there's some sort of funghi rights of way issues.

So I'm thinking of taking a leaf out of my friend's book. I've bought a Teach Yourself The Lord of the Dance DVD, by Michael Flaherty. Each night, I practice syncopated dance rhythms to the music of Ronan Hardiman.

And the next time the guy in Tesco knocks me, I'll do a merry jig until he backs off and walks away to the potatoes. Dance, don't fight. That'll teach him.