No one ever need feel lonely again, for the Macarena is there within us. It is something that unites us, a truly transcontinental reference point that means 90 year old Portuguese farmers can connect with 17 year-old Lithuanian gymnasts, Venezuelan sailors have got something in common with IT support workers from the depths of Thailand. It is more than just something that Lee Mack gets paid handsomely to look back fondly on, or a pop culture relic that Rick Wakeman can pretend to be enraged by. But the Macarena goes beyond a silly fad. Do you still remember how to the Cha-Cha Slide? Can you still Crank That like Souljah Boy? Yeah you're really into Konichiwa but when was the last time you did the Rolex Sweep? The point is, dance crazes are often just that-momentary blips on the cultural landscape, bizarre moments in time when we collectively agree to delude ourselves into shaking a leg and actually enjoying it. And, yes, the sight of a potential world leader rocking the kind of moves your grandmother pulls after six multiple orgasms in a Benidorm bar is quite funny, but what's funnier is the genuinely bizarre longevity of the Macarena as a cultural touchstone. This week the internet's been going wild over a video from the 1996 Democratic National Convention in which Hillary Clinton-the world's first politician-as-.gif- does the Macarena. The Macarena's ruined their lives and yet they can't stop trying to master it, as if conquering a novelty dance craze from the half-remembered 90s will rid them of the demons they've harbored since the last days of the Major government. They look anxious, unsure of themselves, genuinely terrified that they've flipped their right hand rather than their left. Go to a wedding, barn dance, annulment, christening, vehicle tax registration confirmation bash, or all you can eat buffet completion celebration anywhere in the world, and you'll see a swarm of people still not exactly sure how to the the Macarena even though they've been aware of the Macarena longer than they've had the internet or quinoa. You've never escaped the Macarena because the Macarena has become as much a part of your life as faint memories of Blue Peter appeals, Phil Jupitus, and duckweed. You're making love to a beloved partner and it's there. You're trying to pick a decent pear in Aldi and it's there. You're sat in the car waiting for your mum to pay for petrol and it's there. It eats away at you when you least expect it. That sense of shame's never really left you, has it? Twenty years on-somehow two entire decades have drifted into the ether since the smash hit dance sensation rocketed up the UK charts-you're still haunted by it. You're back there in the school hall, velcro flapping in the breeze, the faint smell of baked sausages mingles with old netballs, and you're stumbling over your own feet, failing to get the Macarena right. You're back there in the classroom terrified to the point of tears that your friend is going to tell the teacher that you called them an old fogey and that teacher is going to tell the headmaster and the headmaster's going to tell your parents and your parents are going to tell Father Christmas. You're back there in the playground, with dogshit on your shoes and glue between your fingers, chasing girls with sticks, falling face-first into a puddle. I bet you can remember every awful, embarrassing, scarring thing that happened to you when you were six years old. Do you remember being six years old? Of course you do.
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