Rave on: Can you ever be too old to Boogie?

Dancing Dad (Pater groovio): a frequent offender at weddings and family gatherings. This species is now of an age to demonstrate the effects of prolonged exposure to dance culture and fleeting glimpses of Strictly Come Dancing. These elements are now manifest among the exaggerated shapes that form the typical Dad Dance choreography. Beware excessive knee action!

Although firmly part of the pre-Criminal Justice Bill rave generation, I have not "hit" a dancefloor in over five years. In this time, my brief visits to nightclubs have involved standing awkwardly at the bar and ordering drinks from apprentice adults, before slipping across the floor using my unique shuffle, while patting my pockets to find a sack to put on my head. It's a peculiar dance move, which attracts far too much attention.

But now, having just cruised (with some effort) past the age of 40, it is time to test my Dad-Dancing mettle; I will go out, I will dance in public, and my children will witness it. Years and years of my own internal rhetoric, both poetic and political, have converged on the principle that I should never stop the groove, and that this groove is in itself a shamanistic journey that guarantees insight into how we are configured into the scheme of nature.

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That does seem like total nonsense now, but only because I have dropped that dancing thread, and now find myself disorientated in life's labyrinth, while the Minotaur is listening to all the best tunes. Right now, I believe he's nodding his horned head to the Flobots' "Handlebars", or some other teen iPod essentials.

I badly need to rehearse, before this minor mid-life crisis turns into a groove catastrophe. As I start to find my truly funky thing in the living room, to the heavy vibe of Roots Manuva's "Do Nah Bodda Mi", strutting my resplendent stuff in a high-stepping version of a Mongolian wrestling dance, my 15-year-old son walks in. We look at each other. I smile; he smiles; the smile skids across his face into a smirk; then he turns down the music.

"Dad... you are an actual dick."

This, of course comes as a surprise, not because for a moment I imagined myself to be a "supposed dick" or maybe a "metaphorical dick" or even a "private spotted dick", but just because he is my son, this is his CD, and I am taking an interest. Adding to that self-righteous ire, the artist Roots Manuva is, in fact, himself five times closer to my age than that of my son (not that I have researched or calculated this, of course). Howev- er, I am sadly haemorrhaging due the savage teen evisceration that I have just experienced, and cannot muster the marble-cracking outrage that I feel deep down. I am funky, boy... funking funky, you little brat.

Right, that's it. It's Friday, 6.30pm, and I am ready to go. I have convinced my eldest daughter that we should go to one of Exeter's super-clubs, so that I can bust some proper moves for her groovy education. She said there was no point going out before 10. I do know this, but have to really fight the desire to do what dads do deftly; drink a bottle of wine, and dad-out on the sofa.

It is very apparent that there is a definite Dancing Dad archetype. Everyone I have asked to show me how a dad dances has performed the same actions. These involve wide-spread, low jazz hands, with occasional Saturday Night Fever spasms and a broad, high, glue-stepping knee action; the animated dad will then move forwards and backwards offering, but never connecting with, their knee-led embrace. This glorious genuflection is designed to exhibit the suppleness of the dad joints, in a display that leaves the viewers in no doubt about their paternal ability to carry shopping to the car. The message, unequivocally, is: "Look, no arthritis... yet." (Please note that Grandad Dancing is a separate genre unto itself.)

My daughter and I proceed, at speed, to the club. Outside are stood huddles of young adults (no, youths), laughing, joking and viewing me with some suspicion, I feel, in the midst of this urban thicket. I go downstairs into the club, and as I do, a wit chimes: "And he didn't have to show his ID or anything, blaad." I am briefly flattered, then detect the swingeing sarcasm in the comment.

I am really worried that there will be nobody there my age. Now I'm a parent and I'm dragging myself through the door, towards a deep dub version of Junior Murvin's "Police and Thieves".

Earlier in the week I spoke to the club's owner, and he had estimated that about 5 per cent of his clientele were about my age. So that's one in 20, right? Tonight, there are only about 30 people in the entire club. Looking around for someone my age, I realised that at this stage of the evening I am fulfilling the rough quota by myself.

People dribble in. I congratulate myself for recognising a Mad Professor remix of Massive Attack's "Protection"; I would quite happily dance to this, were I not in a half-empty club. But sitting in a darkish corner, as various young and mainly female friends come up to talk to my daughter, I cannot help feeling like a dirty old man constantly jumping out of a metaphorical hedge whenever I attempt to add anything to the conversation.

Looking over shoulders, I count some more clubbers through the door. Soon, there will be someone my age. Soon. I do a headcount... 39... and there he is, the second person in the club.

He is undoubtedly (well, approximately) my age. He looks fairly relaxed. I'll just let him settle before I go ask a few well-chosen journalistic questions. I think he saw me looking.

"All right?" (That's me.)

"Yeah..." (That's him, slightly balding, and desperately trying to avoid making eye contact.)

I apologise if the following passage in its transcribed form sounds very similar to a geriatric liaison in a residential home.

"How's it going?"

"Eh? I can't hear you... what?" The music is very loud for codgers.

"How's it going?"

"Do I know you?" Frowning and looking around him.

"Eh... Oh no... Do you come here often?"

"What? Are you joking?"

"Are you dancing?" I frantically gesticulate. "Dancing!"

"Am I what? Dancing?"

I nod, perhaps too enthusiastically.

"No, I'm bloody not."

A lull in the music, and I shout: "So why are you here, then?"

"To pick up my daughter."

I walk back over to my daughter's group, congratulating myself that, tonight, I am not part of the Taxidad fleet; I am here to dance.

And then: "Daaad, can we have a lift? It's never going to kick off here."

I spend the subsequent short drive castigating myself for being such a ridiculous soft touch. We reach the fresh venue, only to be informed that it will cost £12.50 to go in. This news provokes an apoplexy of paternal pomposity, theatrical spluttering and gulping. "Twelve-fifty... you are joking!" As he graciously confirms that they are not joking, my daughter and her friends walk on in, heads bowed in slight shame. Turning on my heel, I walk back to the car, feigning outrage, but with quite some relief.

It is 11.30pm and I have not danced a step. No stamina. I'm a complete lightweight. Will I ever feel the elation of banishing the dark with the help of a host of dancing souls again?

Another Saturday, and I am going to go out again. Like Billy Elliot, all I want to do is dance. I want to rediscover that idiosyncratic vocabulary of moves that I spent 20 years developing. By grafting Shakin' Stevens, pogo, slam dance, acid trials, techno, jungle roll and drum'n'bass on to a root stock of lino-based breakdance, I have propagated a mutant dance hybrid. I want this plant to flourish.

Tonight it is soul funk night, not at a club, but in the chic bar of one of Exeter's super-hotels. The band are friends of mine: all white, mostly middle-aged, and playing funk and soul covers. Despite some qualms about cultural misappropriation, they are infectiously competent. Here, among cocktails and coffee, I find myself in the elder quartile, but I am by no means the oldest.

Standing, watching the band, I start move my hips and shoulders. Sly and the Family Stone, "Dance to the Music". It feels peculiar. Looking down at myself, I see that the once neatly chamfered edges of my pecs now move like a pair of underfilled piping bags. A minimal amount of moobment – but so what? Further down, I can feel the sweaty dew on my skin forming in a fold of flesh on my back. Yes, I am fatter than I was the last time I danced – but it still feels good, and surely some of the other people here must look more foolish than me. However, as I cautiously genuflect to an arrangement of the Young Disciples' "Apparently Nothin'", I find that one of my knee joints is aching alarmingly.

Then, from behind me, I hear a torrent of TLAs (three-letter abbreviations) – NQT, TLR, SEN, PSP and SLT; I glance around and catch sight of two rookeries of cross-legged ironists, cawing around tepid cafetieres. These are unmistakeably teachers, and this has suddenly become a recreational staff-room. The music swells, and the lyrics roar: "And what have we learnt from history? Apparently nothin'. Nothin', nothin'..." I have nothing against teachers; but this, along with the cocktails, the fat and the sore knee, critically curb the exuberance I hoped to bring to my dancing.

Or are these just excuses? Can I learn to forget my dancing youth and stop confusing it with the present truth? Will it ever feel as if my dance moves might make a difference to the world again?

It's Tuesday. I am crossing to the dark and sparkly side, where I am told men dance with avocado stones between their buttocks in order to improve their posture. Strictly speaking, I am not going to a ballroom dancing class, rather something called Ceroc, which, its website announces, is "Pure Dance Addiction". Why choose this? Largely because I found the flyer on the pavement while walking back to my car a few days ago; a golden ticket, maybe.

An anxious phone-call to the Ceroc teacher confirms that there will be plenty of people of my age there tonight. The majority, in fact, would be my age. This is information that I fail to impart to my daughter, who accompanies me. As we enter, and the demographic becomes apparent, she starts to become a little chopsy. She may actually embarrass me, but it's too late to back out.

The main room of Exeter's Corn Exchange club is softly lit. At an occult signal, the dancers organise themselves into coupled rows. We watch, we copy, we swap partners. To the R&B lilt of Rihanna's "Umbrella", we step back, turn, release and catapult. Our smiling faces, our self-deprecation, our good humour... this is easy. Just an observation, though: it all seems a tad like an evangelical, swinging, Moonie mass wedding version of musical chairs, set to R&B and Latino rhythms.

Another move, another partner. I'm still confused by left and right, but the moves are becoming more fluid. Shakira assures us through the sound system that "Hips Don't Lie". A smiling face, marked with no irony, takes my hand and coos: "Oh, it's so warm in here now, I've just had to take my cardie off." This might be a coquettish flirt, but significantly it is a statement that I find myself deeply empathising with.

I've executed a few new moves this evening, not my own – but how do you define your own dance move? At 9.30pm, we go home. In the resulting debrief with my daughter in the car, she is bemused but generally positive – despite something she mentions about a "trembly man" incident. In fact, at home, almost as soon as we are through the door, we perform a brief routine for the appreciation of my son. The reaction: "Dad, you really actually are an actual dick". His sister somehow manages to sidestep this critique.

So, my mission has been a qualified success. I have been out again – three times! And I have danced – admittedly not a lot, and I feel I failed to embarrass my children as much as I could have.

But this is just the beginning. So far, my dancing has been confined to the floors of Exeter's super-venues. But autumn, I've discovered, is a lean time for the family gatherings and weddings that form the core of the Dancing Dad calendar. These are the great opportunities to throw the kind of shapes that only the "experienced" dancer can pull off – for on such occasions, dads can be safe in the knowledge that strange relatives will always be more diverting. A dad can get away with murder at Granny's 70th birthday bash. If you should find yourself in such a situation, be assured there is no need to be self-conscious – you are a dad, and everyone there knows it.

And Christmas – a season of outrageously bad music, family, and fat geese – is coming. I shall dance expansively and joyously in preparation for this season – with my secret ally. She loves all my moves, as we mirror each other with broad grins, to the strains of our favourites, Take That's "Rule the World" and The Prodigy's "Charly". Together, we wiggle, we shake, we groove, we giggle. The ally I refer to is my younger daughter, Xanthe, the truly cool one. She's nearly four years old, and free of any affectation whatsoever.

But I'm not going to overdo it. My dance powder remains dry. And that makes me more dangerous and unpredictable than ever. Waiting for the right song to spark my next funk explosion, I will contain my grooving pyrotechnics in my copper-lined living room. Then... soon... when crackers start to crack... Boom!

Disco for dads: The Rupert Moon masterclass

1.Sly and the Family Stone, 'Dance to the Music'

Perfect for dads who like to mime the different instruments played. "All we need is a drummer... add a little guitar."

2. Junior Murvin, 'Police and Thieves'

A perfect excuse to act out both the stealth of the thief and the mindless truncheon wielding of the police.

3. Young Disciples, 'Apparently Nothin''

A goodly amount of finger-wagging and a broad flat line 'nothing' signal.

4. Rihanna, 'Umbrella'

The umbrella needs to be a central part on the dance. More confident dads may put up the umbrella while dancing. Unsuspecting bystanders may be invited to shelter under said umbrella...ella...ella.

5. The Prodigy, 'Charly'

Some paw action required (to refer to the cat mentioned in the song). But as dads remember the original public information campaign, they will accompany this with the Charly "grimace" and head tilting.

6. Roots Manuva, 'Do Nah Bodda Mi'

Mongolian wrestling dance is advised.

7. Flobots, 'Handlebars'

This allows the dad to ride a bike during the song, thus showing how out of touch he is.

8. Take That, 'Rule the World'

Global semaphore, heart shapes; plenty of "you and me" indication.

9. Massive Attack, 'Protection' (Mad Professor remix)

"I stand in front of you, I take the force of the blow", may possibly provoke bodyguard actions.

10. Shakira, 'Hips Don't Lie'

The dad can indicate the fulsome size of his, or other dancers' hips. A winner.

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