Mark Morris Dance Group @ Royal Opera House

There are some songs you cannot listen to without dancing. Go on, I challenge you: any MJ. The Killers's Human. Jimi's All Along The Watchtower. Gnarls Barkley's Crazy. Prince's Kiss. Annoyingly, most of Vampire Weekend. I remember romping wildly at a Seth Lakeman concert out in the woods, looking around at the Derbyshire folk sedate in their cagoules, and thinking: you are dead to me. I was feeling a little melodramatic, mind you. Lady of the Sea will have that effect. But a Handel oratorio? I must admit that I rarely leap out of my seat when I hear Andreas Scholl giving it some with the Sacred Arias, or request a spot of Jephtha to really get the party started at Favela Chic. But having seen Mark Morris's infamous dance piece set to L'Allegro, il Penseroso ed il Moderato, I will never hear that music again without wanting to literally jump for joy.

There's little I can add to the praise for this show, which pairs Handel's music with Milton's poetry and Blake's paintings in a two-hour riot of sound, colour and form, which premiered to huge acclaim in 1988, and which came to the UK for the first time in a decade this month.

Matthew Bourne is an ugly duckling compared to this swan. Morris has achieved the unbelievable: modern dance with the twatishness taken out. L'Allegro is an unashamed and relentless sense-pleaser, and what's more, it's emotional and physical narrative is utterly understandable - we actually get why the dancers are doing what they're doing, and are simply swept up in their human story rather than some treacly 'interpretation'. However, it is also original and surprising, constantly teasing and seducing: a mega-scale mating dance to the human race. Oh God, just watch a bit.

Handel; Milton; Blake; the colours of forests and fondant fancies; and twenty four beautiful, beautiful bodies throwing shapes? My boxes weren't just ticked, they were bled dry.

Next time I'm getting my freak on in Bungalow 8, I know what I'm slipping the DJ. We'll soon see if their retro-muso oneupmanship stretches to the eighteenth century.