Dirty Dancing?

When I was very young, I got sent to ballet classes. I was seriously crap.  Too tall, too ungainly – the ugly duckling in the back row.  Ritual humiliation on a weekly basis.  I didn’t dance for years after that, until I got into my teens and realised that I needed rhythm, a beat; drums and guitars; loose limbs not pointy toes.  I haven’t stopped dancing since.  I danced my way through university and partied my way through my twenties.  I don’t really mind what the music is – as long as it’s got a beat, my toes will start tapping, my hips will start swaying.
 
Adrian, bless him, isn’t one of life’s natural dancers – he jokes that the pogo is his dance of preference – so I tend to dance solo, or with friends, or – as you already know – with the stampeding horde of ululating women that is Zumba. 

Anyhow.  An email popped into my inbox about the Disney Channel.  Seems they’re launching an online dance contest for children and young teens. Could I publicize it?  Heck, why not?  Anything that gets children moving is good in my book.   So, here’s the blurb…

Disney Channel has teamed up with Got To Dance winner Akai Osei to launch Shake It Up: Dance, Dance, an online dance contest that will give the winner the opportunity to have their dance aired on the channel, as well as a holiday to LA and a dance master class with Akai. The online dance contest is open to anyone between 6-16-years-old.

Viewers have until August 31^st to visit the site and upload their clips. The winner will be voted for from a shortlist of 10 finalists.  So, go for it!  

Disney did a survey on young people and dance and found, encouragingly, that almost half of them dance several times a week and that 67 percent of those surveyed said that dancing made them feel happy with a quarter feeling more confident.   I dunno, dance certainly boosts my endorphin levels sky-high.  It’s a total body and mind workout and I wouldn’t be without it...  It saves my sanity!

So, so far we were singing from the same songsheet.  But then they went on to say that the survey revealed the ‘most iconic dance moments in history’ and, errr…. Michael Jackson’s Smooth Criminal, High School Musical’s We’re All in This Together and Beyonce’s Single Ladies.

WTF???

Now, we could be here a very very long time if I listed all my favourites but…hey…. Let’s start with.. 

Heaven’s Gate – the roller skate dance is awesome… but sadly it won't load (YouTube it - it's worth it.)

But I love the waltz too…

They got the tough street kids into ballroom with this one in Take the Lead… and by heck the tango is one sexy dance...

There's Dirty Dancing, of course… 
http://youtu.be/WpmILPAcRQo

And there's Riverdance in the campervan in Father Ted (apologies, can't find a clip for that but it's a cracker.)

But, my favourite?  It’s got to be this, huh?   Love this movie to bits..

What about you? 

My Karaoke song would be...

Well I was going to write something entirely different  today but it felt a bit maudlin somehow.  Then I found I’d been tagged by the lovely Erica for the ‘karoake meme’.  Say what?  What song would I sing karaoke?  Okay, I’ll admit, I’ve never done karaoke, not once.  Never had the chance.  Would I?  Sure. After all, I’m no stranger to making a complete arse of myself in public, am I?

But what would I sing?  When I think back to me singing, my first thought is hymns. I used to love singing in church for some strange reason, Christmas carols in particular – The Three Kings will still bring a tear to my eye today.  But you can’t do karaoke carols, can you? 

I do have this clear as day image of racing onto the dance floor, aged 18, every time Gloria Gaynor came on.  I will survive.  Now there’s a song and a half.  Young, passionate, desperate, with skin so thin it ripped at the slightest scratch, I’d dance and sing my heart out to that; in my skin-tight red jeans and Oxfam “vintage” spiky heels; fuelled by Southern Comfort and heartbreak.

But since then?  No, not really.  I sing in private though, all the time.  When I’m driving alone I let down the windows, turn the volume up high high high and belt out all sorts.  When I’m walking in the woods, with my iPod stuck in my ears, I am wont to sing along to Kate Bush’s Lily (which sends shivers down my spine)  – complete with arm actions – it’s a fecking good job I don’t meet anyone or I'd be typing this from a padded room.  And no, I can't sing that high.

Borderline by Kleemass on DeviantArt.com

But now? Hmm.  I rather like the sound of Rock Band for Xbox – might have to investigate that.  And, while my general musical inclinations lie with rock, nowadays I do most of my lip-syncing to Zumba dance tracks… So, I guess it would have to be this.. and yeah, I can do all the voices!

Now then.  Who do I tag?
Milla (if she says The Smiths I will strangle her).
Lulu
Mags
Tattie
Tee

So girls...hmm, all girls...funny that.  Okay, my lovelies - get to it! 

btw, Gloria is dedicated to a very lovely friend in particular who will survive...and to all of you really - because we will, we do, of course we do...

Bacchanalia

I think I may be developing a bit of an exercise addiction. Since my boot camp experience, I’ve found I become a little ‘twitchy’ if I sit still too long. I’ve discovered that getting a serious sweat on is a pretty effective way of banishing my natural tendency to gothic gloom and over-thinking.


Meditation is good, it really is – but it tends to encourage my inner dippiness. Whereas seriously tough aerobic exercise puts me into clear ‘no thought’ territory which, in my head, is a seriously good place to be.

I walk the dog, I’m a regular at the gym; I do yoga. I go to Zumba class on Friday night and shimmy and shake. Last Friday I was talking to Nicky, who really does have a hardcore exercise habit.
'If you think this is wild, you oughta come to the Wednesday class in Tiverton,’ said Nicky. She raised her eyebrows meaningfully.
I’d heard about that class: it was legendary. 80 wild women crammed into one small hall; sweat dripping down the walls; more tattoos than a ship-full of sailors; 90 minutes of wild abandon.

‘Anyhow,’ she continued. ‘There’s space in the car if you wanna come.’ Hellfire. It was a challenge.
‘Okay,’ I said with a shrug.
‘Don’t wear too much,’ she added. Oh shit.

Way-hay! The hall was heaving and, as the music started up, off we went – one huge rhythmic surge of abandoned female energy. I’m not a huge team-player; I don’t usually like being one of the crowd, but there’s something weirdly mesmeric about moving in perfect sync with the shoal. A wild whoop rose up from behind me; followed by a chorus of cat-calls and wild whistles. Bloody hell, it was turning into a Bacchanalia. Were they really only swigging water?  As the sweat started to pour between my shoulder-blades, as my feet salsaed and merengued and calypsoed all by themselves, I found myself fighting the urge to click my teeth and shout ‘Ayyyyeeeeee’ and even ‘Ole Ole!’

‘C’mon, into a large circle,’ yelled the instructor, Debbie, who has to have the most mobile hips I’ve ever seen on a skinny woman. She was going for it something mental, tugging women in to dance with her.

‘Hey girls, we have a man in the house,’ she yelled. Holy shit! One guy amidst 80 women? He had some balls. A roar of approval went up from the rank and file. Jeez, they were going to tear him limb from limb. But Debbie pulled him into the middle and, fair play, he got down and dirty with his hip thrusts to shrieks of approval.

‘Well, that was fun,’ I said, as we got back into the car and tried to clear the steam from the windows.
‘That was insane,’ said Ellie.
‘I tell ya, that’s gotta improve your sex life,’ said Nicky.
We burst out laughing and then, grinning broadly, retreated into our own private reveries for a bit.

As we spun off the valley road, Nicky broke the silence.  'Hey,' she said. 'There's a four hour charity Zumbathon coming up.  With alcohol.  Anybody game?'

Holy cow.


Why is Zumba SO good?  Cos you get to dance to stuff like this....



 

Bootcamp - in which I discover I love hardcore exercise

It was one of those weird coincidences – you know, the ones I love so much.


An editor I used to work for had sent a round robin email to announce she was going freelance. Soon after I got a call from someone else on the list - an ex-editor now turned PR.

‘Long time no speak,' she said.  'I saw you on the email list and wondered if you might fancy going on a bootcamp in Buckinghamshire?’ she asked. ‘It’s run by this amazing woman called Julie Brealy.’

‘Hang on a flipping minute,’ said I. ‘I know Julie Brealy.’ When I’d damaged a tendon, she’d given me sports massage on it for weeks – down here on Exmoor. She was fab. She was also pretty hardcore. My Achilles got better out of sheer fear. But, hey, small world. It was obviously A Sign so I signed up. And promptly forgot all about it.

Then realised, in a mild state of panic, that March was whizzing along and I had a hot and fast approaching date with eight hours’ exercise a day. Stumbled onto the train with a case full of trainers and my bodyweight in painkillers. Arrived at Latimer Place and was hurled straight into a circuit class followed by – oh yes – Zumba.

I don’t think I’ve talked about Zumba on the blog. About my mad love affair with the wildest, sweatiest, dirtiest dance going. But you can read about it on my Lady blog here. There was lots of Zumba on this weekend – four hours of it. Oh yes.

Anyhow. The weekend was a total blast. Just wonderful. There were twelve of us – all women but all ages, sizes and shapes. Some revoltingly fit, some not so. You work at your own pace, encouraged rather than pushed. No noses in the mud; no screaming and yelling. Best thing was trying out new classes and workouts. So it was thumbs up to kettlebells – yeah the Russian dead weight thingy you swing between your legs (very fetching). Thumbs down to bellydancing (I tried but I just can’t shimmy my boobs in the opposite direction to my hips). Actually, nor could anyone else – we all looked desperately stiff and Anglo-Saxon (even the French and Swedes in the group). Thumbs up to gym sticks (a deep and brilliant stretch) and, surprisingly, thumbs up to Jazzercise (bit of a blast). You know, I can’t remember everything we did but there was a lot of it. There was also tons of food. You think you have to live on a couple of carrot sticks and the odd oatcake? Wrong. I seriously couldn’t keep up.

At the end of the day we piled into the pool and swam and then jostled for room in the jacuzzi. Then crammed into the steam room and sauna. And laughed and laughed.

But, best of all – bliss upon bliss – I was working so hard that there was no room At All for the usual nonsense that flies through my head. I was in ‘no thought’ for such vast periods of time that the world transformed into a very pleasant place. So coming back home felt weird. What is this thing called ‘sitting on a chair at a PC?’ My muscles twitched; wanted to move. And my mind winced as the old crap came rushing back in as I unravelled over 100 emails and a slew of voicemails.

So I went to the gym. And talked to Trish who introduced me to Julie in the first place. ‘Did you like it?’ she asked, as I beat hell out of the exercise bike.
‘I loved it!’ I said.  'Just the dog's bollocks.'
‘Hmm,’ she replied. ‘Better do a week the next time.’

You know what?  I'm severely tempted. 


Brealy Bootcamps - give 'em a go! 

Tango woman strikes bronze

I love the idea of summer. I have this image of me, slim and tanned, nonchalantly sporting cut-offs and a t-shirt, mucking around in the sea, trip-trapping through the sand-dunes, playing beach volleyball with James and his mates. Or standing, Pimms in hand, looking sultry and sunkissed in a floaty dress with spaghetti straps at summer barbecues. Oh dream on, sunbeam. The reality is that I huddle, under cover of a beach shelter, in jeans and long-sleeved top, laden with Factor 50, nose in book, moaning when sand gets in my ready-mix G&T.

Summer and I don’t get on really. Spaghetti straps and skimpy tees are no-nos when you’re a J cup. But mainly my problem is my uber-white Celtic skin. Skin so white it gleams in the dark. When I was young I thought that, at some point or other, my freckles would simply join up and – hey presto – I’d be tanned. Of course they didn’t – they just turned into age spots.

I went through a phase of trying fake tans but fell victim to the twin miseries of orange streaks and the all-pervasive stench of burnt biscuit. I tried to convince myself that it was fashionable to be pale but pale on an ethereal eighteen-year old and pale on a pudgy middle-aged frump are two quite different things. So I gave up.

Then someone sent me a tube of Xen-Tan. I sniffed – it smelled of vanilla. I rubbed a little on my arm – it felt like a nice body cream. Encouraged, I massaged it into my legs and – hey presto – a few hours later I was brown. I was so excited that I emailed my editor and asked if she wanted a feature on fake tans. True to form she ignored the email for several weeks and then, on Friday, said – ‘Yes! Do it now! Try out every kind you can think of and let me have the copy by Monday.’ She tends to forget that a) I don’t live in London and b) all expenses were cut a couple of years ago. ‘Um, that’s a tall order,’ I said. ‘Wednesday then?’

Dear gods. This reminded me of when part of my job was road-testing hairdressers. I started off with a shoulder-length swathe and ended up with a GI crop. When they couldn’t cut, they coloured and – after a dizzy trip through the rainbow of hair colourants – my hair turned into slime. ‘You’ve killed it,’ said the last one, suggesting a feature on wigs.

Okay, so this isn’t as extreme but how can you test out fake tans when you’ve only got one body? Answer (a touch of brilliance, I thought): try out different ones on different bits. So I’m now a patchwork of tan. And brown, very very very brown.

‘Good god,’ said Adrian, as I walked down the stairs in pedal-pushers and a floaty top (with thick straps). ‘What on earth have you done?’

Don’t you just love the esteem-boosting effect of the average husband?

As I walked over to my friend Rachel’s car, she leaned out the window, staring at my legs. ‘You’ve been St Tropezed,’ she said. Actually, spot-on, the legs were St Tropez. I spent the entire journey to Taunton apologising about the smell; she spent the entire journey apologising for her feet. We had a very funny conversation which I wish I could remember but I was laughing too hard.

We saw Five Soldiers, a piece of contemporary dance which followed five soldiers through training (monotonous drill) into a tight-knit unit (while revealing their individual personalities).  It showed clearly that behind the uniform and discipline are real people, with real passions and pain.  Given feelings about the war in Afghanistan, I was surprised (and saddened) that the audience was so sparse. 

'It's the world cup,' said Rachel. 
Ah yes.  Of course.  Nothing more important.

‘To be honest, I preferred the one with the whirling monks,’ said Rachel. ‘Or the one where they captured members of the audience and put them in bin bags.’
‘Yeah, me too.’  I felt awful saying it but no, it's not a feelgood show.  Not when one of the soldiers ends up losing his legs.  
‘We didn’t laugh at this one,’ I said.
‘No,’ said Rachel, rather sadly. We have spent several productions weeping quietly into our handbags, disguising snorts with bouts of coughing. It’s great for the soul – probably doesn’t work so well for the performers.

We didn't laugh much on the way home.

Yesterday my lovely brown legs and I spent the day attacking the garden with particular verve and vim. Today we shall go and see David Bellamy in the churchyard (no, he’s not dead – just opening our revamped church).
I won’t be wearing a spaghetti-strapped dress but, curiously, I will be feeling happier about my summer self.   Not just because I've found my ideal bronze but because I still have a pair of legs to get brown (one way or another).  And that's simply not a choice for some of those soldiers coming back from Afghanistan.


PS - check out Project Mobility - a great small charity.