Friday, May 31, 2013


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 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.

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