I’m no fan of Donald Trump, but questioning his mental health on the grounds of dancing is a low blow. Kamala Harris threw shade at Trump this week for his “bizarre” dance party moves at a rally in Pennsylvania. On social media, Harris wrote “Hope he’s OK”, alongside footage of Trump bopping to Y.M.C.A.

He’s not a pretty mover, but so what? Was it “unhinged”, as Joe Biden claimed? And if Harris raises concerns about Trump’s mental acuity because he’s jiggling away like an awkward parent next to the cheese table at a wedding, I’m concerned about her acuity for fun.

Trump’s mental acuity is indeed a concern, but not for his dancing. By all means, question his state of mind for his “pathological lying, childish name-calling, grandiosity and narcissistic obsession with crowd sizes, open bigotry, erraticism, desire to be liked (loved!) by murderous dictators”, as Jacki Calmes does in the Los Angeles Times.

Likewise, we have to question what planet Trump was on this week when he described himself as “the father of IVF”, even though no one has any idea WTF that means. But after surviving two or three assassination attempts, this has-been/would-be president is more than entitled to a “shake it off”. While the author of that lyric, Taylor Swift, does not endorse Trump, she certainly endorses shaking it “like a Polaroid picture”, in the immortal words of Outkast.

When I was footloose and fancy-free, I would go to an event called No Lights, No Lycra, which runs all over Australia. It’s like a rave minus the drugs and obnoxiously mundane bass line, taking place in almost complete darkness. The songs are usually crowd-pleasers like Supergrass’ Alright or Katrina & The Waves’Walking on Sunshine. You can test out new dance moves, the only concern being you’ll hit someone while attempting the worm. I’ve been known to dominate the dance floor, my confidence rising with my blood alcohol levels.

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On the days my kids have been doing their best impression of miniature drunks with anger issues, we get to 4pm and I turn on the party playlist, starting with PSY’s Gangnam Style and finishing with Dance Monkey by Tones and I. We jump off couches (the kids) and attempt break-dancing moves (me). The happy endorphins get us through to bedtime and stop me from reaching for a G&T or adoption papers.

I haven’t had a single assassination attempt on my life, so I’m granting Trump some space on the dance floor. He joins a long line of awkwardly dancing politicians, who morph into memes that live rent-free in our minds.

Think Boris Yeltsin circa 1996, with his erratic fist-pumping and hand-clapping, looking more like a toddler unable to contain the excitement at their first Wiggles concert. Or Bill Shorten, failing to culturally appropriate a Kiribati dance in a matching headpiece. Or Craig Emerson’s daggy-dad headbanging and singing “no-Whyalla wipeout” to the tune of Skyhooks’ Horror Movie. Or Theresa May’s attempt at the “shopping trolley” in Africa. Or Obama’s boogie with Ellen.