It is a humid evening inside a town hall in Sydney’s inner west and my inadequacies are on full display. Signing up for a queer line dancing class was an act of impulsive pluck; actually, being at a queer line dancing class feels like an exercise in public humiliation. On floorboards scuffed by footfall, I am wobbling and staggering to the sinister warble of Sabrina Carpenter. Luckily, there are 99 other queers in this chamber of ignominy. It is depraved and it is beautiful.
This is Saddle Club: a weekly social where gays and allies (but mostly gays) commune to fulfil their country western fantasies. Saddle Club is barely six months old, but already it has taught its routines to thousands of willing acolytes: seasoned regulars, giddy festival goers, even breakfast television presenters hamming it up in suits and stilettos. And they’re not alone: across the world, queer line dancing parties have sprung up in a procession of toe taps and heel stomps.
