#10 Boom Boom Dollar

Oh wonderous Bracknell, location of the film "Buddy's Song" - a heartwarming epic where the life and times of one Buddy Holly are portrayed through the stellar theatrical abilities of the one and only Mr. Chesney Hawkes.

Yes Bracknell, home of the John Nike Leisure Centre (referenced by such celebreties as Alastair G), the inspiration for the "Sound of Bracknell Ice Rink" that once filled the dark and dingy rooms of Hertford College Bar.

Most importantly Bracknell, home of the world famous for the Hollywood bowl - one of the few leisure venues I have ever attended that was manfully patrolled by members of Bracknell's finest doorman community. However, it was not the doormen, nor the prospect of flinging some turkeys, nor the fine cuisine served by its American-stle diner that set the Hollywood Bowl appart. No. The draw of the Hollywood bowl was one simple arcade machine...

Armed with codes - sourced labouriously (thank you dial up internet) from the fora of America Online's gaming pages that would ramp the machine up to "insane" difficulty - we descended upon the only machine of Dance Dance Revolution that I was able to find (outside of the infamous Pepsi Trocadero in big scary London town).

If this was dancing, then I could really dance - my feet were a blur as Boom Boom Dollar (by King Kong and D. Jungle Girls), Butterly (by Smile.dk) and even Paranoia 180 (by EFD) posed little challenge to my mastery of my lower appendages. (Follow the links for some nostalgic YouTubey goodness!)

Sadly. This was not dancing. This was a computer game (and I am good at those).

As anyone who witnessed the slowest of slow shuffles at my wedding can attest, I am certainly no Christopher Walken when it comes to smooth moves on the dancefloor.

So armed with my leaving present from my old team (are dancing lessons an insult?!?) I took my relatively newly established wife to a local dance school for a "Tango taster session". It was time to complete #10 Learn to Dance

Just to put this in context, my wife can dance. She can dance lots. Having spent the majority of her formative years dancing 3-4 times a week - across the spectrum of ballet, tap, jazz, modern and break (not actually break) - it is fair to say she puts me to shame in any area of rhythm. I figured that because of this, she could carry me through one little dance class...

We turned up at a dance school. Not one of those dodgy dancing-come-dating events that plague London, but a proper dancing school with leotard clad students and everything.

Then we met our teacher.

Imagine Louis Spence if he was Italian, and slightly camper. This was the chap who showed up to take the class. Sadly, with the exception of one other equally naive husband, Louis and I made up the full contingent of man in a room adorned with woman. Muchos woman, all of whom were dreaming of a primetime Saturday night slot on the BBC dancing cheek to cheek with Sid Owen.

This was no "turn up and dance with your partner". Oh no, that would be far too easy. Instead, we were split by gender and made to face each other across the room. The scene of  two frankly terrified men stood opposite a baker's dozen of overly enthusiastic ladies (one of which was my schadenfreude-laden wife) will haunt me for evermore.

We then performed the basic step over and over again, with Louis' exaggerated posture flip-flopping between that of Johnny Bravo and a worryingly accurate Jessica Rabbit impersonation (complete with such a quantity of chest that I caught myself wandering if he was a regular patron of Harley Street) depending on which section of the room he was teaching (or in my case, criticising).

Then it was partner time. Phew. I could finally hide my inadequacies behind the effortless grace of my near-professional wife. Or not as it turned out.

Instead, I was passed around like a so called "phat doobie" at a Sparky house party - having a little more of my life sucked from me by each agonising encounter. Feet were trampled, awkward greetings exchanged and the brief respite of actually dancing with my wife lasted only seconds before I was claimed by my next torturer.

Finally, the hour was over. I had aged terribly during this ordeal and was left a broken man - hobbling sheepishly out the door. Then, good old Louis suggested we may want to join for the full set of weekly classes. My eyebrows are yet to return from the raised state this suggestion caused.

In summary. 10/10. Would definitely do again.