Just found this piece I wrote a couple of
years ago about briefly fancying some daft English footballer who was on
Strictly Come Dancing and it made me laugh…..
“Oooh, I said, “here he comes.”
On a Saturday, only because there is nothing
else on the television, the family sits down to a bit of Strictly. I say “a
bit” because it is always started before we remember it. I love dancing, in
real life and on the telly, but somehow I haven’t managed to accommodate
Strictly Come Dancing into my TV weekend routine. As a result I have never seen
Lulu (is that Lulu? She’d had so much done to her face I can’t tell anymore?)
or that ghastly Italian woman that was with the England football manager. The
boys “let” me watch it because, like I say, there is nothing else on and also
because it is their moment in the week when they allow something uniquely
stupid and girlish to the television in acknowledgment of how marvellous I am.
Or, more likely, they like to have a bit of a snigger at me.
“He’s good,” I say, “oh – yes now that’s
what I call a waltz.”
“I wish your father could dance,” I say
drawing the ten year old in, “When are you going to learn the salsa so you can
dance with me.”
“Never!” he shouts laughing – then we tell
him the anecdote about when he was a baby and we went to Kelly’s Resort Hotel
and there was ballroom dancing on and Daddy went to the bar and when he came
back Mum was doing the foxtrot with a very
old man whom she’d asked up to
dance. It was so embarrassing.
(Actually it was most embarrassing for the man who was very light footed and
had to be seen among his dancing peers as taking to the floor with a much
younger woman who could barely trot.)
I wonder sometimes if Angelina Jolie is
such a source of amusement to Brad and their brood – I doubt it - but with the
Tominator coming on board the boy-gang in the next couple of years – I can’t
see the teasing and the slagging anad the complete lack of salsa-dancing around
the kitchen stopping anytime soon.
Perhaps I was asking for it by openly
fancying Robbie Savage. It must be
my age because, honestly, I don’t fancy footballers – or men who dye their hair
or, under normal circumstances, men who go shirtless and thrust their pelvis at
you. But then, Strictly isn’t ‘normal circumstances’ and I’m going to be fifty
in three years time – the age when all bets are off and women start salivating
over twenty-year Anyway, surely there is just something attractive about a big
muscly sportsman dancing and he is, physically, a fine specimen and he never
takes himself too seriously and always seems to be having such a tremendous
amount of fun. Frankly? If I was at a wedding, and he asked me up to dance?
Well – I’d say yes. Not question.
“Now that’s what I call a samba,” I said, “just look at his bottom
– marvellous stuff.”
“Mu-huuuuuuum!” Leo shouted, giddy with a
mixture of horror and laughter.
“Oh God – not Robbie Savage – really? ”
Niall said.
It’s funny how we only like our partners to
fancy people off the telly who are slightly similar to ourselves. My husband is
slim and sophisticated and low key - he very opposite of the preening blonde
cavorting Strictly love-god.
I sensed a tiny element of jealousy
creeping in to his voice so I hammed it up. A woman has to get attention anyway
she can these days.
“Well,” I said, “I keep telling you there
is nothing more attractive than a man who can dance….” – not just a barbed
comment, but a sneaky nag as well. I’m good.
“So it’s alright for you to fancy Cheryl
Cole,” I said, “but I’m not allowed to fancy Roddie…”
“Ronnie…”
“Ronnie em?”
“Ronnie Savage – he’s a footballer.”
“Yes well whatever….”
“Anyway – you ruined Cheryl Cole for me –
remember?”
Oh – so I did.
Last year my son and I plotted and went to
a preposterous amount of trouble (and expense) getting a lifelike Cheryl Cole
mask off the internet, then on Christmas morning I came down the stairs in my
fluffy red dressing gown and frightened the living-be-Jesus out of my poor
husband.
It was a very mean thing to do but it was
also deeply satisfying and very, very funny.
I have yet, despite her ridiculously
ruining her face and twittery Australian twang voice, managed to cool his
ardour for Kylie Minogue.
The thing about these famous fantasies is
that they fill in the gaps.
I will never be young and beautiful again
and my husband will never be able to salsa like Robbie although....
“Don’t suppose you fancy a course of
dancing lessons for Christm……”
“Don’t even finish that sentence,” he said.
Better start sourcing that Kylie mask on
the internet now then.
