BLOG 186: Flashy Neighbours

“Dressing is a matter of taste, and I've met very few glamorous types with good taste." Keith Watson

Nights out with good mates remain one of the highlights of my life. Yeah parenthood is pretty awesome, and being able to fund roof over head and put food in belly is an achievement but being able to go out with great mates and shake booty to old skool tracks and sink rosé is also pretty much up there on reasons to be cheerful list. You fret about what to wear, then fret about transport, then forget to continue to fret about either as once in the venue you drink, chat and dance with mates and even make a few new ones. Not exactly the most difficult formula clothes+transport+ good times= night out. What is not to be cheerful about!

The fretting about the clothes thing has usually been resolved with a sparkly top over a pair of jeans, a bit of lippy, and a couple of inches on the heel. The transport problems have been resolved by going out locally due to south east London/north Kent having dire transport links to the rest of London. And seeing I do live sauffeayst lundin into nauff khent there is a plethora of brilliant venues in which to meet my mates... the area is renowned for its love affair with dance music, so once the gang is all together under one roof... we’re onto good times.

However... a couple of things have changed recently. Our transport links have improved and suddenly the old formula seems to have got infected with a virus.

Last night I went out with my mates for a wobble around the handbag... and although I swear I was definitely out in my own locale...(I could tell... the crowd was doing the “woehoes” in the Fatback Bands “I found Lovin” with such passion an gusto. [Chanting ’Woehoe’ in the musical interlude whilst slightly bent forward, one hand over heart other arm splayed outwards, slightly over emotional shaking of head, all whilst stepping side to side]... everyone but my friends and I looked as if they had escaped from an episode of Jersey Shore...or worse... The Only Way is Essex!

What the HELL was with the very dark spray tan, obvious and huge hair extensions, massive fake eyelashes and nails, thick drawn on eyebrows and boobs pushed up so high that they sit under the chin. (And that was just the guys!!!) No seriously... I had to check the sat nav... for one moment I thought I was not out in south east London/north Kent. But sat nav defo said Latitude 51.41492 and Longitude 0.11493. I was still located sauffeayst lundin into nauff khent.

Should you be unfamiliar with the locale so Google sauffeayst lundin into nauff khent Google would bring up anything between Blackheath and Chislehurst with a side serving of Bromley and Dartford. Now, in this locale we take our nights out pretty seriously and you will find that everyone is catered for from age of majority through to age of retirement. (Though usually in different venues!)

However you can expect to feel the power of the bass wherever you go in the area for a night out. We have a history of dance culture going back into the fog of time, but the prevailing temperature is based on the SauffEaystLundin Soul Movement of the late 70’s. This historic change brought about a hitherto unknown phenomenon of even Caucasian males being able to dance extremely well. All our guys dance, all our girls dance... it’s kind of what we do... and we do it well. In fact our little pocket of London is kind of known for dressing for dancing rather than glamour. Not being able to cavort about in the centre of town due to shockingly bad transportation links meant that we made up our own rules and have been influenced more by the modesty of our home county Kent, than the big city we are nominally part of. Mottingham to Maidstone, it has always been more about busting moves than busting out. But yeah we scrub up well, but face facts we were the last place in the Greater London Urban Area to ban leisure footwear in night clubs.

London’s influence on South East London and North Kent was weakened due to the fact that historically we have not been linked to the rest of the city by tube. This means that a night out in the city poses a logistical nightmare when getting home. Black cabs frequently refuse to take people who live in any suburb home for fear of losing the more profitable short fares in centre of town. Those who live in the far flung East, West North and South West suburbs were serviced by underground trains that would run at antisocial hours. However SauffEaystLundin would become inaccessible after 10.30 when the last overground train would leave Charing Cross. Once a Black Cab driver caught wind of the dulcet tones of a SauffEaystLundin accent it was metre off for hire sign down. Geographical isolation followed. However, nothing can remove a SauffEaystLundiners right to party so to overcome this we created our own micro-society; we created party towns where we can wobble around our handbags till dawn without fear of hearing another accent. Nothing keeps a SauffEaystLundiner away from a good night out...after all WE are the people who invented the “woehoes” in the aforementioned Fatback Band classic.

However, a few years back, the powers that be finally looked at the map of London and pondered why it was that the tube network went no further south east than New Cross. They decided to have a good look around and thought “my goodness (!) there is infrastructure here... houses, schools, shops, churches.... loads of cafes bars restaurants and clubs.... and no frickin tube!!!”. So they connected us to the city via the DLR and Jubilee line extensions. Now I’m not ungrateful... it’s bloody nice to be able to get to London City Airport in half an hour or less. BUT... what those lovely city planners did not notice they did... was connect us closer to Essex.

Now we have the DLR and Jubilee line there is just one place we can get to quickly all day and practically all night.... Essex. It is now possible for the residents of sauffeayst lundin into nauff khent to find themselves in Brentwood (39 minutes) faster than finding themselves in Brent (65 minutes). Which in simple terms means ... it’s easier to get to Sugar Hut than Wembley from here!

Now for those of my readers who do not quite get the delicate politics of the geography of outer London. Here goes.... The Greater London Urban Area is the conurbation or continuous urban area based around London. Basically; South West London runs into its “home county” of Surrey, which kind of starts at Croydon and dissolves into rural Surrey after Woking. West London runs into its “home county” of Middlesex which kind of starts at Hayes and dissolves into rural Middlesex after Heathrow. Then North London has the “home county “of Hertfordshire which kind of starts around Elstree and dissolves into rural Herts around Potters bar. Of course SauffEaystLundin has the “home county” of Kent which kind of starts after Eltham and dissolves into rural Kent after the river Medway.

The East End of London overspills into Essex... which doesn’t quite recover from the shock until you get to the other side of Colchester... by which time you are practically in Suffolk!

Now every country has their Essex, and I have no disrespect for our upwardly mobile county. I’m not a snob about new money and deeply respect the self made men and women who work hard for their money and love to spend it on ‘improvements’.

Maybe if we good people who live between Mottingham and Maidstone spent less time wobbling round our handbags and practicing our dance moves, we too could have built empires in the worlds of construction, and hairdressing.

However such the new proximity of our flashy neighbours to the east... we cannot fail to be dazzled by them. Suddenly we appear to be the dullards compared to the glamour of them over the river spray tanning themselves into another race, attaching wefts of fake platinum blonde or midnight black hair to their mousy heads, pumping up their boobs and lips and finding themselves the shortest skirt and highest heels in Primarni.

The isolation of our little SauffEaystLundin bubble has been burst. Face facts - many of sauffeaystlundin’s famed dance venues are much more glamorous than the persons within them. So having closer proximity to the painted, inflated and powdered folk of Essex has of course made us think a sparkly over a pair of jeans doesn’t measure up.

And judging by last night we have taken the next steps... we are emulating their look.

However... I think we may just save ourselves.... from ourselves.

Our flashy neighbours look is perfect for the Sugar Hut where no one really builds up a sweat due the phenomenal amount of preening and posing involved. But who are we SauffEaystLundiners trying to kid.... two bars of The Plastic Population and we’re Slaves to the Vibe - Aftershoc stylee! It’s not a pretty sight all that sweat streaked slap. – but we can’t help ourselves.... we like to dance!

I reckon the dance will win... we just can't pull off the Barbie and Ken stuff and pull off moves worthy of Ciara and Chris Brown at the same time. I'm noted that by evening end false eyelashes were put away and a few comments were being uttered in the ladies that push up bras really don't offer much support when droppin it like it's hot!

Here’s hoping that on this trend....The Only Way is Up!

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Blog 185: The holidays are coming

“Xmas ads are the great lie at the heart of British culture, heralding the annual ritual of expensive titillation, futile fix, followed by months of debt and regret.” Stuart Jefferies

It’s odd for anyone who is not British to understand this... but Christmas doesn’t begin for us with remembering Mary and Joseph’s journey to register for tax, it does not begin with this years micro-celebrity turning on the Regent Street lights, it does not begin with the X-factor/Strictly ratings war. No... the run up to Christmas in the UK is marked by the BIG (and I mean BIG) Christmas Advert.

Now to my readers who do not live in the UK, this uniquely British phenomena, this is one more example of how nutso we are on this little island, but hey(!) We invented the television and we are a nation of shop-keepers, so it is only right and proper that at the end of the year these two elements come together and that we as a nation are transfixed.

When I was a child Christmas was not coming until the commercial break in Coronations Street was entirely taken up by Woolworths. “Have a cracking Christmas... at Woolworths” some lowly paid backing singer would warble. Then a slew of Woolworth merchandise would be lovingly stroked by a parade of frenetic dancers who would (now here was the exciting bit) be interspersed with celebrities of the day. The Woolworth Christmas advert was a master stroke of TV, all singing all dancing – they were like a mini-cabaret... and the nation was obsessed with them.

“Oh isn’t that Anita Harris and them two from the Goodies inviting us to ‘have a cracker of a Christmas shopping spree’!” “Oooo isn’t that Kid Jensen over by the record counter?” “I swear that is Dave Lee Travis behind that trombone.” And of course the big one screeched across every home in the land : “ Look Look Look! It’s Bruce Forsyth!!!”

Yes my family (like every family of the time) would spend the next six weeks of the run up to the celebration of the birth of our Lord, shouting out the names of celebrities as they appeared. To us like every family in the land celebrities singing and dancing and suggestively stroking a bottle of old spice meant Yuletide was a-coming.

Decades later the BIG Christmas advertisement from the BIG stores still means it is THAT time of year again folks.

Although mince pies and tinsel have slowly been filling the racks of our high street stores since August, I never felt that Chrimbo was upon me this year until I found myself in floods of tears watching the John Lewis advertisement.

This master stroke of manipulative viewing is set to one of 1980’s anti-establishment band The Smiths songs ‘Please, Please Please’ turned into a winsome classic by the sweet tones of Slow Moving Millie . It features a 7 year old boy wishing time away as he waits for Christmas. Greedy little sod we all think until the pack shot reveals he was just waiting to give the present he has been hiding all year in his room to his parents. Awwww... the message of Christmas IS still alive... it IS far better to give than receive. And the big plump tears rolled down my face as the spirit of season also flooded me.

Mind you not all the BIG stores are pumping out that message... Littlewoods have their huge Xmas advert set in a school Christmas concert where the kids sing out what great gifts their mother is buying from thus named company. (Message: Kids expect high quality brand name stuff or you are a failed parent)

High street chemist Boots (one time winner of Xmas ad of the year with their now legendary Christmas office party ad) have chosen for Christmas 2011 to show us a crack squad of women (think Charlie Angels) providing all the Xmas treats and pressies without any assistance from a male of the species. (Message: No this isn’t liberation – this is the sad reality... doing Xmas is a job for the girls).

Meanwhile supermarket Waitrose has gone all Harry Potter on us with Hogwartesque Academy of Christmas Food Magic being run by chefs Delia Smith and Heston Blumenthal. (Message: you can still say you made it yourself as it’s not ALL pre-made) One expects low budget from chav favourite Iceland, who have Xfactor 3^rd place a few years back Stacy Solomon ‘Driving Home for Christmas ‘to plates of easily defrosted food (Message: no one cares if you made it yourself, it’ll be ready in 2.5 minutes in the microwave)

Sainsbury’s clearly still in the gloom from losing £millions so it really shows their heart was not in it when they made their Xmas mega ad. They have a bizarre but suitably gloomy advertisement with chef Jamie Oliver doing traditional dinner served to traditional panto characters. (Message: Oh no we didn’t... oh yes we did) But the biggest shock of the season being Marks and Spencer going decidedly low rent by having the no talent line up of this years Xfactor appearing in their big budget, overly long Christmas production. (Message: ?????)

My heart though (like many others) must go out to Freddy Flintoff. If you happened upon Kingston-upon Thames during the final days of summer you may have seen Freddy filming his debut Morrison’s Christmas extravaganza. Trying to present the supermarket as some kind of German outdoor Christmas market, Freddy got to dance through the streets of Kingston, in a blizzard of fake snow, testing food as he went. (It is a sad thing when a Cricket career ends earlier than expected – but our Freddy has to pay the rent somehow!). In the broadcast version though, it really does look like winter and the final pack shot has our Freddy on a Christmas feris wheel rising high above the town as a choir of angelic kids sing a Take That classic and the church bells ring. Freddy is such a man of the people he even finds time to chat to an elderly gentleman on the seat beneath his on the Feris Wheel of Christmas Well Done.

I saw that advert while I was round my parents house, and I must say, it took me right back to those early days of the Woollies chrimbo special.

As the gentleman turned to speak to Freddy and his face was revealed to camera ... my mother shrieked:

“Look, Look Look!! It’s Bruce Forsyth!!!”

That made it OFFICIAL... it must be that time of year again then!

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BLOG 184: Accidental

“Accidents, try to change them -- it's impossible. The accidental reveals man.” Pablo Picasso

It is often said that I can be quite distant. Like I’m there, (taking part – making noise and ostensibly in the moment), but totally unconnected. Someone once said it was as if I am an observer rather than a true participant and that I get in my own way when it comes to belonging. It’s possibly the fairest criticism I get.

I don’t think I truly belong to any one thing, or place, or indeed person. I’ve been that way for more years than I would ever be comfortable numbering, but I suppose if I had to say where I think it started... it would be when I did the maths and figured out that I am an accidental person.

Now being an accident does not mean you are not loved – very often the accident is lavished with love and is very secure within themselves. This is certainly NOT a security issue – after all people had to decide to keep you. So how more secure could you be! Yet conversely when your very existence was generated outside the planned zone, a strange almost observational relationship develops between you and your own existence.

I doubt if many of us are comfortable with details of our conception, and I should imagine most of us are spared that. But we all at some point or another do the maths and figure out whether or not we are accidental people. I suppose it shouldn’t make any difference if you were much planned or a complete surprise, as they say on all the reality shows it’s all about the journey.

It’s a comfortable thought, that where you start does not dictate where you end, but unfortunately I don’t believe that for a second. Once you are aware that if the rules were abided by, you would not exist that solitary thought does rather inform your journey.

I exist when really I shouldn’t and so on some subconscious level I don’t really think that ‘the rules’ actually apply to me.

This is not all bad. Non accidental people kind of have a path laid out for them. They are like fare paying passengers... they know exactly where they are going. I’m more like a stowaway... always waiting for someone to reveal I shouldn’t really be on board. But it does rather make one slightly distant when it comes to belonging... because ...well, think about it... a stowaway doesn’t.

Anyhoo... here I am. To all intent and purposes I AM doing the same journey as everyone else. But I don’t cling to the rules or expect any of the rewards, because hey!... they were never actually laid on for me. I may sneak a few while no one is looking, but I’m never going to plan anything in. My journey is entirely accidental... it really doesn’t have a plan... it runs because it is running that’s all.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to do the journey with the non-accidentals though. Happy to witness how it all works when you really should be on board the good ship Life. I will always applaud your successes, commiserate your failures, endorse your efforts, support your struggles, dance at your weddings, raise a glass at your christenings, cry at your funerals... but all the time feeling strangely disconnected from it all – as only an accidental can.

I doubt very much if you know what I mean.

Unless you are an accidental person too.

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BLOG 183- Hip Thrust Away

"God match me with a good dancer." William Shakespere

I learnt to dance over the top of the co-op in Chislehurst (Kent) back in nineteen boaty-trim and it’s the best thing I ever did. To go into something relatively a blank page and come out the other end (to work the metaphor) as a readable novel is a fantastic and life enriching experience. Back when I learnt to dance Ballroom was not a fashionable pastime... but it has put me in good stead and although I went of in a different direction with my career in lyrical and jazz ballet, I have always said I built on the foundation ballroom gave me.

I’m not the only one who loves a bit of ballroom, 46.8% of the British television audience settle down every Saturday night to watch Strictly come Dancing. Of course Ballroom (ever since 1992 when the Baz Luhrmann film came out and changed EVERYTHING) has got it’s sexy on!

Yep... settle down to watch Strictly results show an what am I greeted with... 5 very beautiful young girls gyrating to Beyonce in a fashion that would not look out of place at spearmint rhino. There was a time when dirty dancing was dirty and one had to comb the back alleys of Soho to find the likes of The Paul Raymond Revue bar in the hope of finding five ladies on stage cavorting in a provocative manner whilst in a state of obvious undress. But dancing provocatively has (thanks to MTV and its imitators) had gone mainstream and there is nothing dirty to be found in dancing anymore.

Or is there?

Whilst Aunty Beeb finds partially naked dancers perfect Sunday family viewing, middle England feels this may not be the case.

Six days ago, I was contacted by a national paper for my comments (as a ballroom trained ex MTV dancer... oh yes I am partially responsible for the moral decline of dance!). You see Aunty Beeb received an ‘avalanche’ of complaints regarding one particular dance... well just under 300 complaints... but for 300 folk to ring up and complain about the sexualised content of a ball room dance.... well that was quite something.

Of course being a dedicated ex-dancer... where was I last Saturday? In front of my TV dissecting dances on Strictly? Of course not! I was at my dear friend Annabel’s 30^th Birthday party dancing MY night away. So a rather ratty national newspaper person instructs me to watch a sequence that is being sent over to my comp-u-tata post haste and come back with something quotable.

I logged on, expecting to see some pretty eastern European dancing the rumba in a chiffon curtain... (when oh when are people gonna get over the fact this Cuban/African dance IS the dance of sexual desire and nothing but nothing is gonna make it look pure!)... but then I heard the strains of the music.

Ba... ba.ba.ba....bah ba....Ba.ba.ba.ba.bah....

I’m sorry... is that not Michael Jackson’s Bad? Hang on that can’t be anyone’s Rumba! The Rumba is danced on a 2,3,4 beat. Michael Jackson’s Bad is a classic 1,2 beat... it’s a march .... THAT is the sound of a bloody Paso Doble. What on earth can a girl do in a Paso that will get middle England complaining in their droves?? Paso Doble is danced with high chest, the shoulders wide and down, and with the head kept back but inclined slightly forward and down, the weight is forward, but most forward steps have heel leads.... in other words... gyrating with sexual abandon is really not much of an option. I prepared myself for what on earth costume had outraged 300 souls good and true to contact the BBC with those angry statements that always begin: “I consider myself to be very broadminded but even I can see that the children need protecting from this FILTH!!!”

But the costume department seemed innocent of all charges... the very beautiful (and inescapably sexy) Ola Jordon seemed to be pretty well clothed (only an exposed toned tummy on display) and her partner the Welsh footballer Robbie Savage seemed to be exposing not much more than a gym body chest... and okay the red trousers may have offended the fashionista in us all... but 300 complaints??? No way!

Then it happened.

Robbie thrust his hips in a manor most unbecoming of a matador (which is the role a man takes in this stompy dance) and then grabbed his own crotch... and again... and again... and then ad infinitum until... he thrust it with wild abandon into the face of judge Craig Revel Horwood.

Ah....

I see.

Oh.

Robbie was rewarded for executing Ola’s rather unusual interpretation of the Paso with a four out of ten from Craig.

Kind of just rewards really... what on earth they were thinking! But was it really any more shocking a routine than the one I witnessed a few moments ago with five pro dancers gyrating like billy-oh?

Well I suppose it was... and to be honest it had nothing to do with the proximity of a judge’s face to a competitor’s crutch. It was to do with the somewhat recent development of men as dancers... not just dancers... but as dancers with a rather obvious sexual agenda.

Back in the day, it was always girls who gyrated, auditioning how well their bodies could move... with a sexual agenda obviously. The men... where were the men?... oh they were there...watching, whilst gripping a pint tightly. A man certainly never danced... and if he did it was a display of semi rhythmic gymnastics – this would be performed only with other men and NEVER (I repeat) NEVER for the whole duration of a tune. He’d do his trade mark thing, nod to the guys and it’s be over – back to gripping beer tightly. This led to one of the saddest but common sights of the 70s, 80s, 90s and noughties... groups of dolled up women dancing with each other. Oh what a waste of sexy womanhood!

However the times have moved on these days public displays of free-form gyration and groove to loud music seems to be the right of every man! (Or at least every man under 45!) Finally men figured out that dancing is masculine. To dance well, one needs good health, poise, co-ordination, stamina, strength, athleticism, rhythm, balance, suppleness, speed, style and an ability to predict and react to the movements of others. Interestingly enough, all these things are also what make something men are wired to be impressed by - a good fighter. And so it has come to pass that men are heading to the dance floor to impress each other by busting a move.

Oh yes... the days of circles of women dancing round piles of hand bags are over. Men have finally figured out that a bit of hip action is exactly what it takes to be a real man (and attract the ladies).

Women are wired to be canny creatures, they choose men based on DNA... who is the strongest, the tallest, most muscular, what ever it takes to ensure that the offspring they are wired to carry will have the best chance of survival. But nature is a woman too... she wired women to be most attracted to the men who could dance... just to ensure making those off spring be as attractive a prospect as possible.

However... Robbie Savage... in bright red trousers thrusting his hips in Craig face?

Well... “I consider myself to be very broadminded but even I can see that the children need protecting from this FILTH!!!”

Loool!!!

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