My Dance Odyssey to the Centre of the Ballroom

My first term of my second year at Warwick University has been all about societies. Having suffered several crises of confidence, regarding both my course and the things I thought I enjoyed doing until the tragic death of my Dad in February 2011, I needed something to really get my teeth into. So, in addition to taking on the presidency of my course-related society, (which I will blog on at a later date), I have found myself absorbed in the world of ballroom dancing. This blog will detail why joining Warwick's Latin & Ballroom Sports Club has been one of the best decisions I've ever made.

I'm just about to go on to the competition dance floor for the first time. It's the Beginners' Waltz at the Edgbaston Tower Ballroom. My hair feels like it has been painted on, I have a number pinned to my back like a prized pig, and I think I'm about to throw up.

'Keep your elbow up'.
'Smile'.
'Don't dance in the shadows'.
'Look left'.
'F*cking smile'.
'Extend but not too much'.
'For God's sake, smile!'

I'm fairly sure the Moon Landing had fewer instructions than this. Then again, I doubt NASA were as helpful as the fantastic senior dancers at our club, who, seemingly, will do anything to improve your performance. And, when you see how fantastically they dance, you bloody well listen.

'Couples number 50-100, take to the floor'.

The music starts...

***

I took up dancing towards the end of the summer term, when I realised that the sum total of what I had achieved in my first year amounted to a personal record of Birmingham City games attended. There were a few taster sessions, my dancing house-mate always looked as if she loved the club, so I thought I'd pop along. In the first sessions, I think I took the motto 'dance like nobody's watching' a bit too literally. I was all a bit overwhelmed by just how hard it was, especially as the instructors made it look so easy. I persevered, however, determined to learn a skill I could be proud of by the end of university.

Eight weeks into dancing, I've already taken part in my first competition. This last week, to coin a cliche from It Takes Two, I've lived and breathed dancing. Thursday night, we practised for just over an hour. Friday, we danced for four and a half hours. On Friday night, I had a recurring dream in which I went arse-over-tit in the quickstep. Saturday, we rehearsed for another hour.

A 7am wake-up call on Sunday morning only adds to the notion that I'm fully committed to this dancing lark. The early start is fairly cushioned, of course, by the fact that I have a partner who I get on so well with, and that the club is surrounded by such good-natured people. In a strange twist of fate, we drive past the Birmingham ground on the way to the ballroom, as a sort of gentle reminder of what I've given up. The mental and physical torture of supporting the Blues vs the mental and physical torture of a first dance competition. It's a toss-up, to be honest. The second one doesn't involve Hayden Mullins, which slightly tips the balance.

Half a tin of gel and a bottle of hairspray later, we're ready to go. I had very little, or no idea, what to expect, as I imagine my readership equally does. To explain: there are roughly eighty beginner couples; ballroom in the morning, Latin in the afternoon. There are five judges dotted around the dance floor; five balding blokes, including one who, naturally, looks like Len Goodman. It's our job to wave our number in their faces and impress them. To begin with, there are six heats, containing twelve to fourteen couples. This then gets roughly halved, you dance again, and again, and again, until there are six couples remaining, and then the judges rank the final six.

Like I said, I had no idea what to expect. Frankie (my dance partner) and I had both said we'd go out and have fun, and what would be, would be. For a first competition, if we got through the first rounds on a few dances, we'd snap your hand off; anything more, crippling nerves and inexperience considering, (many had already danced a competition a fortnight ago) would be a bonus.

***

First waltz over, and the mixture of relief and emotion is enough to almost cause me to break down. No time for my diva fits, however, as we walk off the floor.

'You didn't smile!'
'Keep your elbow up!'
'Stay in time!'

Quite frankly I was just glad not to have accidentally trod on Frankie's toes.

After the quickstep first round, it's back to the waltz results. They read out the numbers of who's through to the next round in ascending order, so, as number 95, if it jumps from 87 to 101, we've had it. Goodnight. The only equivalent I can think of is when you catch the end of the football scores on the news and they can't be bothered to list the full result, so they say 'and elsewhere there were wins for Millwall, Barnsley, Derby, Nottingham Forest and Birmingham'.

'Beginners Waltz, second round. Numbers 12, 34, 45, 57, 68, 82, aaaand... 95'.

SCENES.

My little victory jig by the side of the dance floor will live long in the memory.

'Ed, get on!'

What? We have to dance again?! Getting through the first round was my utopia! At least smiling won't be a problem in this round...

Alas, we don't make it past the second round for waltz, or indeed quickstep.

It's a strange old place, a dance competition. I saw a bloke spraying anti-hair loss spray in the toilets at one point. You don't get this sort of thing down the Blues. Another time I walked in to the changing rooms and a rather advanced-looking dancer from Edinburgh was seething about 'dance politics'. I neglected to tell him that I was simply chuffed that I didn't end up falling over.

It's Latin in the afternoon. Practice makes perfect with regards to dance in general, and particularly Latin; I used to hate it, now I quite enjoy it.  However, our first dance, a cha-cha-cha, was probably the worst performance ever to grace the Tower Ballroom. Frankie and I completely lost timing, we forgot our routine, I nearly lamped a judge with a flying arm, and we stood looking blankly at each other for a good portion of the dance, mouthing 'sorry' at each other. No need for apologies really. Cha-cha, I'm later told by a sympathetic dancer, is bloody difficult to count in if you're a beginner in your first competition. Never mind, we're surely out of this one, time to concentrate on jive.

Just in case, as the second round starts up, I go over the routine in my head. Frankie, rightly convinced we're out, is eating an apple.

'Beginners recall for cha-cha, numbers 67, 75, 82, 91, and 95'.

'F*** off!' I say, a bit too loudly. I'm not being self-deprecating, it was the worst we've done the cha-cha in a long, long time. Nonetheless, granted a reprieve, we hurry sheepishly out and give it our all, scarcely stifling disbelieving giggles.

Photo courtesy of Tornar Yang

Jive, we make it through to the second round. Mission accomplished. Each beginner dance, through to the next round. Rumba is something of a free shot, what with it being a novice category.

'Beginners third round for cha-cha, 67, 91, 95-'

SCENES!

Third round! In our first competition! The nerves, by now, have completely evaporated, and I throw myself around like nobody's business. Sadly, our journey in the cha-cha comes to an end there, having just breached the top twenty.

It seems a funny thing to say, considering it's so niche, but everyone should try a dance competition once in their lives. The exhilarating nerves, the adrenalin, your team-mates shouting encouragement at you from the side, willing you to 'get your f*cking elbow up!', the genuine cheers of excitement and altruism when your number gets called, and the fact you've learned a skill that others are impressed and intrigued by.

Oh, and dance dreams are a close second to the dreams where I score at Villa Park and then shush three-quarters of the crowd.