When it comes to the idea of dancing as an art form and significant cultural reference point, you probably assume it only applies in places like Cuba, Argentina and Brazil.

You know, steamy, hot-blooded settings where young, sexy people dance the Tango, Rhumba and Salsa, groins agrinding  like disgraced Blue Peter presenters,  unashamedly erotic choreographed moves which to the casual observer looks to be no more and no less than an anticipatory prelude to a spot of jumping-off-the-wardrobe, crazed, rampant nookie.

Dancing is primal. A courtship process where no words are ever exchanged. Body language with a capital X.

When you're dancing you're getting closer. Though obviously not nearly close enough. But still, close enough to drive a young man to levels of excitement only usually associated with a good cup run. Nah. It's better than that.  Much, much better, as a matter of fact.

You'd be wrong however, to think that all that mating ritual malarkey only happens in sub-tropical, steamy South America. No, it also happens in Scotland. I'm talking about us. Jock Tamson's Bams.

Dancing - or to give it its full name - 'the' dancing - is, and always has been, a crucial component in the popular working class heritage of Scotland, in the West of Scotland in particular and Glasgow especially. We love to dance. Always have. And I hope, always will.

Dancing plays a crucial role in the mating game, and even although there's less obvious thrusty, stylishly passionate manoeuvres, our dances are nonetheless sending the same unmistakable messages to horny men - in other words - men.Sex is on the cards. Possibly. 

Or, at any rate, you're getting nearer, dancing being a close encounter, you might say, of the hot and sweaty kind. Filled with unspoken sexual tension. 

If you're dancing well, that is.  In synch, as it were. Because good dancing, two people dancing adeptly together, always carries with it a subtle possibility that a closer encounter of the hotter and even sweatier kind might not be that far away if you play your cards  - or more importantly  bust your moves - right.

When I was a lad, the place - pretty much the only place - to meet women was the dancing. Such had been the case for some years; my parents had initially hooked up at the dancing and so had nearly everyone else's round our way. It was what you did of a weekend, a ritual.

Some people regarded it as a bit of a meat market and in a way it was, but some people seemed to get what they were looking for, be it a great big hunk of prime beefcake or a cheeky wee leg of lamb, (mutton dressed as lamb if you frequented the Savoy Discotheque on a Thursday night).  

Naturally there are winners and there are losers. And the poor unfortunate losers - male and female - had to make do with a bag of old bones or much, much worse, something unspeakably offal.

There are many different styles of dancing depending on the music being played, ranging from hi-energy rock where dancing can be quite a solitary, not to mention potentially dangerous, highly kinetic affair, through to 'smoochy' dancing where you're given the opportunity to get really close to your partner. Way back when it was called a 'moony' and you - gasp - got to hold each other's bums. 

Let me tell you , it didn't get any sexier than that. Actually, that's perfectly true -usually it didn't get any sexier than that.

Dancing, of course, is an entirely non-verbal activity, a state of affairs which used to extend to that moment when you asked your prospective partner for the pleasure - by silently tapping her on the shoulder. 

The protocol as far as her response went was very strict - she was obliged to turn around and dance with you, regardless of whether you looked like the elephant man or were so pissed you could barely bite your own knuckles. She wasn't required to speak to you and by dance's end was perfectly entitled to disappear into the ether, but by tapping her shoulder you were pretty much guaranteed a dance even if you had two left feet, a face like a burst pustule, a personal odour problem or came from Paisley. 

Everyone was guaranteed a least one dance - it was impolite to be refused. Talking of bad dancers, one of the immutable rules of life is that no man over the age of 40 should ever be allowed to dance. Like love bites and alco-pops, it's simply not for them. 

The overwhelming evidence for this assertion can be witnessed at any family party, wedding or similar joyous event. When Dad or Uncle or any other random middle-aged bloke gets up to bop around to Bon Jovi, Bruce Springsteen or whatever tragic eighties sounds that float his slightly leaky, barnacle-crusted boat, it's cringe time and no mistake.

Watch how he - because he doesn't know what else to do with them - flaps his arms like a broken down rooster hoping for flight, does that pumping water thing or even worse, attempts to channel his inner Tony Manero, as played by John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. Best not to be sitting down whenever you see this horrific sight, since there's every chance your sphincter will start to spontaneously consume the chair. Nobody over the age of 40 should ever dance - hopefully the Scottish Government will make this law.

I include myself in this statement, incidentally. Like Phil Collins, I can't dance, I can't talk, only thing about me is the way that I walk. (And even the way I walk isn't all that tricky.)

In fact, I think I can safely say that I am to dancing what the wrestler Mad Mick McManus was to fine porcelain. (Actually I just checked on Wikipedia. Mick McManus, truly was a connoisseur of expensive porcelain. I'm still a s**t dancer).