The hill I will die on: That stone-cold classic you love isn’t a party starter – it’s a party destroyer | Nels Abbey

It’s that moment at a Black party you either love or hate. Cameo’s Candy, one of the all-time great funk records, comes on and everyone lines up to do the dance. Maybe you throw yourself into it, maybe you are a white friend who looks around in confusion, or maybe, like me, you just sigh in resignation.

The dance is a US import, beginning life as the electric slide in the mid-70s, and eventually becoming the Candy in Britain, thanks to its appearance at the end of the 1999 movie The Best Man. Since then, be it birthdays, christenings, Christmas, NYE – even funerals – you’re certain to see the dancefloor immediately fill and get into formation once the initial few chords are played.

Like many a mere mortal who failed to graduate from the James Brown & MC Hammer School of Rhythm, I despise the Candy. Not only because I’m not a great dancer – a Black counterstereotype that forces me to overcompensate in other areas – but also because I have witnessed the corrosive effect of the dance far too often. That the Candy is a cultural disaster is a hill I am more than willing to die on.

First off, the Candy is not the fire-cracking party starter many have deluded themselves into thinking. A true connoisseur of the late-night boogie down knows that is a party destroyer. Yes, it’s delightful to witness everyone hop in formation and attempt a six-minute vigorously demanding dance formation, but what happens afterwards? In simple terms: everyone is too tired, too sweaty and too dizzy to continue. So they politely find their coats, car keys and excuses and make their way for the door.

Another issue with the Candy is that it undermines the DJ and brings out the demon in the partygoer. Not long ago, I was hosting a memorial party for a great Black British writer. I was doing what people who can’t dance and don’t drink do: telling mean-spirited jokes and scornfully gossiping about book sales. Suddenly, I was dragged to the DJ booth. “Tell him to play Candy! Tell him to play Candy right now or I will never book him again!” said a usually reasonable friend, her eyes glowing with fury. “TELL HIM!”

The DJ, a highly respected bluechip artist and record executive who has been in the business since I was a child, offered a bewildered shrug. Out of politeness, he played it, a mere half an hour into a four-hour shindig. The formation was formed. The dance was performed. Soon afterwards my friend was the first to reach for her bag and coat. The party was over before it started and at the end of the night we were forced to settle a hefty minimum spending bill. The DJ politely explained: “I’ve been doing this for nearly 40 years. I know exactly what to play and when. Candy should either end the party or it just destroys the party.”

Perhaps the biggest sin of the Candy is that it is not inclusive. It is a one-size-fits-all dance with no variation or room for error, divergence or diversity. You’re either with the programme or have your back on the wall. On the bright side, the lack of inclusivity probably makes it the most quintessentially British national dance ever. It is a true reflection of our social order.