THERE are two types of people in the world who I refuse to believe. The first is anyone who says there’s a Town and Gown divide in this city, because not once, ever, have I witnessed this so-called ‘them-and-us’ scenario.

In fact, isn’t that one of the reasons why living in Oxford IS so cool because everyone really does – give or take admittedly a hundred or so moronic individuals – share a live-and-let-live philosophy. And trust me that’s rare...

The second type of individual I tend to shy away from is anyone (okay, any bloke) who tells me they attend salsa and ceroc dancing classes because they want to improve their dancing techniques.

Really?

Because in 51 years, I have never, ever met any man who, having admitted to attending such classes hasn’t then confessed later after a beer or two that their real motive for joining was simply to meet the opposite sex.

Now there’s nothing wrong in that; it’s just I wish they’d be honest.

And let’s face some uncomfortable truths here – while undoubtedly there are many men who like to dance, equally, no amount of money, private one-on-one intuitions and fake tans will ever make any difference to your average, suburban male. Even if he’s 18, he’ll still ‘dad dance’ despite encouragement from Beyonce and Rihanna.

But I guess what really gets my goat are their efforts to disguise their real ambition by becoming touchy-feely and sensitive when in reality they’re blokes in their thirties who just can’t pull.

On the other hand, I do accept (because it’s blatant) that women who turn up to dance classes do so because they really do enjoy losing themselves to the rhythm.

Indeed, many scientists I’m sure would back me up on this – despite no evidence of any kind – that women HAVE to dance.

It’s genetic, and one day I’m sure, if enough money is ploughed into research, I’m sure like Little Green Men and Warp Speed, the breakthrough will be made.

Still, I can’t help but get irritated by how women chat just after dance classes.

Example one: “There’s this Rick. He’s such a terrific mover, and there’s this new guy Jamie too, who just bends like nothing on earth and has such a warm personality.”

Or, example two: “Give me a man who can dance and I’m his”.

Good to know, isn’t it, that women are so discerning? That all it takes is a half tub of hair gel, some cheap aftershave, a fake tan, a Hawaiian shirt, a pair of too tight trousers and a big, dopey smile.

And in case you’re wondering, yes, I too once attended dance classes, was every bit as bad as the caricatures I’ve created, but did stop going once I realised how creepy it was.

The men drooled as they filed through the doors at the beginning of the evening, while the women – and I understand this – just looked cheated...

So why does everyone make out that evening dance classes are so much fun?

I don’t know, but wild horses wouldn’t drag me back.