Now, we’re not man crushing on The Swayze or anything, but we're surely a man as mighty as he could never be taken down by something as crude as cancer? Gun shot? Sure. Hit by a car while in mid-flight firing two guns simultaneously at a band of terrorists? OK, maybe. Nudged hard by a fellow dancer while performing the always compelling but sometimes life threatening flying swan lake lift? Absolutely. But cancer? We refuse to accept it.
This is the man, after all, who would never let Baby be put in a corner.
This is the man who made sweet, sweet, sloppy slimy pottery love to Semi Moore, before she divorced Bruce Willis, shaved her head, worked out, became a man, changed her mind, bought some boobs and married a man-boy to prove once and for all that Bruce Willis wasn’t the one who ended things, dammit.
This is the man who turned a slimy motivational paedophile into a darned lovable character.
So, here’s to Patrick Swayze, with his dazzling smile and lovingly plastic good looks – keep that carefully sculpted chin up, my dancing fool friend. We’re thinking of you. And there’s a good chance that at least one of us would not say no to a bit of bum loving from the Swayze. If he asked. (So long as we could be on top and if he agreed to let us call him Patricia throughout. Plus he’d have to let his hair grow.)
And we ask that anyone out there who spots The Swayze, be it at a local pharmacy buying up all the vitamins in sight or wandering the streets in a daze, peddling his best Dick Van Dyke impression, give him a pat on the shoulder, ruffle his hair (careful you don’t cut yourself) or just a good old shake of the hand. And if (knock on wood) you should ever be struck by the cancer, you can say "If it’s good enough for The Swayze, dammit, it’s good enough for me.”
Patrick Swayze we salute you.
(Not to be mistaken for this man.)
Remember: no-one puts Swayze in a deathbed!