The Macarena.

I am guessing just by the title, I have triggered the gag-reflex in everyone who read it. If you didn't feel a little bile rising in your throat, you probably have no taste at all and if you ever invite me round your house, I will decline for fear of being bored to the point of vomiting up all my internal organs, and some external ones, by your collection of Freddy Mercury commemorative plates from the News of the World Sunday magazine.

It was a fad from about 12 years ago. A fad best consigned to the bin marked "nnnnnggggghhhhh" along with novelty answerphone messages, those key rings which beep when you whistle at them, and Chesney Hawkes.

Unfortunately I remember it vividly. I was in Portugal when I first heard it, and it was there I was taught the accompanying dance. There were two excuses for this, firstly it hadn't hit the shores of England by then, so being completely new to me I wasn't aware that it would become so irritating. And secondly, it was taught to me by a very attractive young girl, who I was desperate to get inside. Despite her grunting, knuckle-dragging, neanderthal, giant forehead of a boyfriend gurgling Portuguese unhappiness at me.

And so keen to impress, I learnt it. And spent two weeks lumbering round the dance floor laced with European lager, looking like a geriatric line-dancer in the midst of a heart attack. Needless to say, I never got to see her naked. And when I got back to England and saw just how stupid people looked doing it in nightclubs, I promptly forgot all about it, cleverly predicting that the only thing that would come along that would be more irritating would be the crazy frog.

And so for years now, I have not thought once about it. I buried it deep inside the brain along with the memories of my pony tail and undercut, and the time I got my shorts pulled down at a swimming pool. So deep inside my memory banks that retrieval makes me shudder until my teeth rattle. Then one night recently whilst watching NZ TV, the hideousness engulfed me once again as an advert for Pacific Blue airlines inexplicably revived the tune along with their own lyrics in what can only be described as the advertising equivalent of botulism.

Unfeasibly beautiful and non-orange faced air hostesses, and overly camp stewards spew forth a song and dance number to the tune of the Macarena during the safety brief, which in turn encourages the passengers to stand up and dance along with them. Ironically something which is generally frowned upon during safety briefs these days. Something to do with sitting down, fastening your safety belts, and actually paying attention so you know when to put your life jacket on just in case the giant cigar tube you are in plummets 36,000 feet at terminal velocity into the sea.

I blame the advertising execs. I have never met any before now, but generally I assume them to be well coiffured, be-suited, self important twats with smugness emanating from every overpaid pore in their body. And down this end of the world, they have dedicated a budget larger than I will ever earn in my lifetime to an ill-conceived advertising idea no doubt while stuffing an equal value of Bolivian marching dust up their idiot nostrils.

Or maybe I am wrong in thinking of it as a revival. Maybe it just never made it down here in the first place. This end of the world tends to be a bit behind every now and again. Maybe in 2 weeks time the dance floors of NZ will be full of people pelvic thrusting in unison whilst waving their arms in the air in what they have been told is how to dance to it, but is in fact the flagless semaphore for "Look at me, I'm a spaz".

Clearly Health and Safety in the workplace has taken a bit of time to get down here. At our workshop a wooden palette was loaded with equipment no longer needed and was about to be forklifted up onto a platform about 15 feet in the air. The forklift operator told me to jump onto the palette and he would lift me with it, saving me the hassle and comfort of using the ladder to reduce my chances of not ending up a twitching mess on the floor. Not wanting to look like a pansy, I agreed and jumped on to the only two inches of space left available on the edge of the palette, and was lifted to the platform precariously balancing on the edge on my toes, doing what must have looked from a distance like a full-body version of the YMCA to try and not fall off and die.

Despite being behind the times, this is where I have decided to stay for now, and the small forklift story was back in the days when I had a job. As the season is closing, I am now unemployed once again and looking for work to keep me here.

I had an interview a few weeks back for a canyoning company. Canyoning involves travelling through a canyon. Look it up if you are really curious, you already know how lazy I am. I had the rejection letter a few days back. They are apparently looking for people with more water experience. I shower at least once a day. I even had a bath once. I'm sure I drink my 80 gallons of water a day (generally in coffee and a little bit of water I accidentally swallow while brushing my teeth). It seems this isn't the kind of water experience they are looking for, so I am back to square one.

Once again I will be whoring myself, and my CV around town. This may lead to another epic retail group interview akin to the Quiksilver incident, however rest assured if I come close to an experience like that again, I am likely to just walk in, place my CV on the desk, do the Macarena and walk straight back out again without saying a word. They'll love that.