April, you Fool

[Sweder]

I should share the hilarity of last night before I set off for the Marina and my rendezvous with Rodge, Jo, Nigel, Jill, Remy, Sam, Lycra Tony et al.

Last night Steps School of Dance, home to waifs and strays of all ages with aspirations to leap the boards of Fame, held a special evening to present achievement awards to their star pupils. Phoebe, an enthusiastic dancer since the age of four, was sweating on the result of Freestyle Gold Star One and her recent Latin exam, a real nail-biter as Latin has only recently joined the curriculum and is ‘very tough’.

As an ice-breaker the dance teachers had concocted a sort of Generation Game style cabaret, for which two parent/ pupil couples were pre-selected. I had been warned by Phoebes that I was scheduled to take part. With nothing further to go on I agreed at the time, as usual pre-occupied with work or running or football or something far more important.

Listen well, dear reader, for there is a moral to this tale, and the moral is, listen very carefully when small children tell you that you’'ve been entered in abstentia for any sort of public appearance . . .

Our opponents on the night, the lovely Val and her equally lovely daughter Haley, were, in hindsight, a tad more clued up than I. They exchanged nervous glances as the audience gathered, and when Val sat down at our table and whispered conspiratorially '‘I'’m going to have a couple of drinks before this gets started'’ I began to smell an unwashed rodent.

'‘Contestants to the stage!’' bellowed the imposing figure of STEPS impresario Wendy Baker.
Ah, time to discover the nature of our folly. Phoebe took me by the hand, giggling, eyes sparkling; anticipation laced with uncontrollable naughtiness.
'‘You’'re going to love this Dad!’'
I seriously doubted that.

On the stage, behind the main curtain, lay a scene from a very low budget horror movie. Two trestle tables, each laden with a bowl of white powder and a plate of what looked like congealed blood, stood centre stage. Behind these, two chairs stacked with Tesco’s loo rolls. On a third table, between the chairs, a terrifying collection of wigs, items of womens’ clothing and an impossibly large bra.

'‘I think I left something on at home’' I mumbled as the colour drained from my face.
'‘Ha ha, good one!'’ grinned Wendy, turning on her microphone. A minion appeared at the curtain pulley, focused on La Baker. A nod, and the curtain parted to reveal in turn the stage, and, to us, a horribly packed looking dance hall. The excited chatter died to a whisper as Wendy welcomed everyone and proceeded to explain the nature of our fate.

‘'Val and Haley will play four games against Ash and Phoebe. The winner of each game gets to choose an item of clothing for their parent and then another for their opponents' parent. At the end of the last game they each have two minutes to get ready before a catwalk show to see who has become the most conincing professional dancer ... '

I felt a rush of something hot and nasty build from the pit of my stomach and rise up through my digestive tract. I swallowed. And again. Never have I yearned for Bruce and Anthea (well, definately not Bruce) as much as at this moment.

‘'Game one, each parent has to find six Chewitts and pass them or spit them to their assistant . . .' I started to feel faint. ‘
'Three are hidden in a bowl of icing sugar, the other three in a plate of jelly. Contestants ready . . . GO!’'

It started badly and, believe it or not, got a whole lot worse.
We lost the Chewitts game, and the next, a mercifully swift audience participation involving sealed envelopes, coloured tickets and another item of clothing. Two down, we’'d been handed the unfeasibly large breast hammocks and a fetching polka dot skirt.
Game Three, however, had our name on it.

‘'OK, OK’ ...' the partisan yelling and merciless tittering subsided. ‘'Game Three, Make Your Mummy!'
I won’'t go on. You know it involved the loo rolls and yes, the children had to cover as much of their parent as possible in a mummy-like fashion in the allotted two minutes. I had a strategy for this game, convinced that we could win at least one and select the less humiliating of the two, vile hair-pieces on offer.
What am I saying??? Least humiliating? There was no ‘'least'’ to be found anywhere in this nightmare, this dark dream from the corners of hell. Surely I’'m to emerge any moment, Bobby Ewing-like, from a steaming shower . . . it's all a dreeeeeam . . .

The toilet rolls were being hastily prepared by two smirking helpers. I grasped fora strategy; we had to win.
'‘Phoebes, hand me the end of the first roll, put the roll on your fingers and I’'ll spin ‘round. It’'ll wind round me really fast and we'’ll win!’' I’'m certain I must'’ve looked entirely bonkers. My daughter's’ face had gone from giggling imp to grave concern. I knew my face bore a fair quantity of icing sugar and jelly, a hideous mask from which my disturbingly maniacal bugged-out eyes now protruded.
'‘Just do it Love; there’s no way we'’re getting stuck with that curly red wig!’'

Ah, the best laid plans of mice and men . . . these rolls were not, of course, Tesco’s 'finest', but an impossibly delicate Value brand. They fell apart on first contact. After two long and uncomfortable minutes I looked like an Egyptian Mummy that had barely survived two hours in a cage full of starving lions. My dressings, along with the last trace of my self respect, were in tatters. Like the boxer who'’s taken a fearful beating but is somehow still on his feet at the final bell I awaited the verdict. Remarkably this verdict had become intrinsic to my immediate future; if we could win just one game and avoid that bloody red wig . . .

'‘And the winners are' . . . winds howled, worlds turned . . . 'Ash and Phoebe!’'
Bellows from the darkened hall, wild applause, a few whistles. I grabbed the almost human headpiece, offering the Ronald McDonald wig to Val with my best attempt at a sympathetic smile. The face I got back said so much more, and none of it repeatable.

As the curtains closed after a third loss out of four, we surveyed our 'winnings'.
A monster bra, a polka dot skirt, a brunette wig and a safari hat smothered in embroidered flowers. What, no microwave, no cuddly toy?
'‘Come on Dad, we’ve got to get you ready for the catwalk!’'
For the love of God . . .

I made silent offerings to the all-powerful that whatever grievous sin I’'d committed to get here I would make amends. With bells on. Handily the mammoth boob-cage was black, to match my shirt (not counting the generous sprinkling of icing sugar), so we started there, stuffing industrial quantities of shredded loo roll into each cup until I had a chest to make Madonna in her Vogue phase seem positively concave.

Finally dressed and ready, Phoebe had words of advice for the final act.
'‘Stick your boobs out, arch your back, and don’t forget to wiggle!’'

There comes a point during any torture session where the victim ‘switches off’. The pain is so great, the loss of human dignity so profound that a sort of peace, an ocean of calm, washes over them. They simply no longer care, taking a distant, detached view of their predicament. I came to this place now, arriving with the sense of relief one feels on stepping off a plane at the start of a long holiday.

I gave it, to use the dancer's’ vernacular, large.
The cacophony of sound that met my performance –- step through the curtains, stage left, a spin, stage right, a high kick and exit with a final flourish of my polka-dotted hips, told me all I needed to know.
I was a star!

The evening took an upward lurch in class thereafter. Where else could it go?
Some of the senior dancers treated us to a cabaret of near-professional standard, with latin, jazz and street dances performed with aplomb. The grand finale was, of course, the awards. Phoebe received her Freestyle Gold Star One (with honours) with a nonchalance that would make Jose Morinho blush. But when the Latin awards were announced she became deathly still and pale, eyes fixed ahead, hands clasped in her lap. This one meant something.
Wendy, centre stage once more.

'‘This year marks our first performances in Latin dance, and everyone has worked incredibly hard.’'
Oh-oh. ‘'Performances are marked by percentage based on the standard expected in each class. Average marks are around the seventy percent range, which will give you a guide as to how well you’ve done.’' Now I was getting nervous.

Phoebe’s name was read out, followed by the words ‘'passed’', ‘'highly commended'’, ‘'eighty-nine percent (Rumba)’ and ‘Ninety percent (Jive’).' Now that’s what I call a star.

Right, now I’'ve bared my soul (and no, there are, nor ever will be, pictures of that catwalk moment) it’'s time to return to the Sussex Downs and see if I can locate a shred or two of dignity.