john & his toight white pants

OK so this is awkward.

Chester and I walked into the wrong class last night. That, or we time warped.

Ches was a little nervous because after looking at the dance company's website, there were only pictures of little girls in tutus. And he was worried the instructor would think he was a kiddie fiddler from Belgium.

(On that, this is what the BBC said yesterday. It would appear my far-fetched Identity Crisis Peadophile theory on Belgium isn't so far fetched after all.)

Anyway, to quench our nerves we klapped three vodkas and cokes beforehand. Just to loosen up and get the joints oiled. By now my chavtastic hip hip tracksuit was ready to take on my sweaty buttcrack. We were ready to roll.

Knowing full well, we could snap hamstrings and femurs.

Like jolly hockeysticks, we bound up the stairs and immediately start making friends and alienating people. We were meant to be intimidating, yo. We were here to learn hip hop. I wasn't here to stand on toast. I was here to make shit gravy. I was here to go down like a hash brown in Chinatown.

She starts us stretching, immediately. But hang the fuck on: OK she can place her chin on her own punani.
Do you have any idea how scary the looks? I wonder if it comes with the lessons:

'Please teach me to dance like the people on MTV...also, one question: does the poen stretch come with the programme?'

Nearly bust my back just stretching (Pilates? Where the fuck are you? I've only been doing you for 3 months, so why the fuck can't I bend like this woman? Hello? Is anybody there?)

Then she informs me that the word 'freestyle' indicates disco Saturday Night Fever dancing.

What.

It's actually a 70s dance routine we were going to do for the next month, oh and look at that, it's Saturday Night Fever's Staying Alive.

Chester was about to become John Travolta, and I was about to become porno.

I mean, they play this song at everyone's parent's 60ths, and it'll pop up occasionally at Boogie Nights themed parties, but that's about it. When else would we get to show off?

I hope after learning this dance routine step for step and finger for finger, Chester and I don't get to be the upright stage trees in the end of year....concert.

Rad.

A concert! It's almost quite as good as being on So You Think You Can Dance?

Anyway, we will indeed do hip hop. She did a hip hop move for me and I almost had an instantaneous orgasm. The move was so powerful and jerky and pelvicky and all those arms everywhere.
If I was sitting on a chair, I would've slid off it.
Am just saying.

'Make me look like you. I want to dance like you. That is so fucking hot....Jesus.'

'I will,' says the instructor.

'But I need to know something: will you help me good enough so that I can dance with those pom pom bitches at the Pro20 Cricket?'

'No. 'Fraid not. You have to be 20. Or at least under 25.'

Oh my God. Jesus H, for the first time in my my life I felt a touch touchy about my age.

'Fuck those cricket people! They can suck on my non-existent testicle bag! I'm ONLY 28. Who the hell do they think they are?'

'OK, um...we have a concert? You can invite all your friends?'

Ches said I should make a fake ID, saying I'm 22. The fucking irony. (Seriously, is there no-one I can blow? But seriously?)

The hip hop starts in November. For now we'll learn to dance like reborn disco people. And don't fucking mock it. I had problems dropping to the floor in the 'jazz splits,' and getting up again in a smooth arched movement wasn't going anywhere either.

I'm certain I broke a few tendons. But I broke them in style.

It's porn, and Chester would indeed look hilarious in a white bellbottomed suit that came up to his armpits.
But we'll definitely do it – learn some rhythm during this routine and then crack the hip hop after this month is done.

Fuck Yes.

Speaking of, the Dove is one of those rare people I answer the phone to as 'Fuck yes!'

I think I might answer more of my calls like this, dependent on my mood. 'Fuck yes!' for people I want to talk to and 'Fuck No' to telemarketers who ring me on private numbers.
My Dad answers his phone by saying 'Speak.'
Seriously.