Strictly Come Darting

I've talked a lot about love in my last few posts. Maybe I'm getting soppy in my old age. Or maybe in a world that seems to be losing all common sense and crumbling into chaos around us, love is what I want to see more of and so am searching it out on some level.

It was 32 degrees and I was sharing a car with three family members for a little over five hours. You might well ask why: I often asked why when we were crawling through the roadworks on the M6 and into the second hour of the car name game.

The reason was love.

Sure, he drives me crazy and invokes eye-rolling like no one else can dare to, but I can't help but love my dad.

So, my brother and I bought him tickets to the darts. The PDC World Matchplay Darts to be exact.

I was a little terrified. I'd seen the darts on telly and it looks quite rowdy. I am not. As a rule. But Dad loves the sport, so along we went. My dad, my uncle, my brother and I were on an Isham road trip up north to the glitz and glamour of Blackpool.

Finally arriving at our hotel along the prom, we peeled ourselves out of sweaty clothes and changed into marginally less sweaty wear, only to cram into Blackpool Winter Gardens with thousands of other people who were sat closer to me than I've been to my closest friends. And they were already rowdy. I didn't think I'd last the night.

But then something strange happened.

I embraced the cheering, the sweating and the mental maths. I looked around the room and saw the love.

Everyone there was there because they loved the darts. #lovethedarts

They loved the game of darts.

They loved some of the players.

They loved hating some of the other players.

They loved the drama of it.

They loved the spectacle of it.

They loved the community of it.

It was a room full of (sweaty) love and beauty.

I loved the beauty of the Winter Gardens architecture.

I loved the effort people put into their ridiculous costumes.

I loved the signs people were writing to hold up to the TV cameras to their nan / their boss / the general public at home.

I loved the kids keeping quiet on their phones whilst parents let loose.

I loved the disappearing drink dregs near the teenagers who'd been dragged along on the annual family pilgrimage.

I loved the chat between groups of strangers on the long banquet style tables.

I loved the pumping beats at the end of every leg of the games.

I loved the pizza box flipped into the air by the Scottish man practically sat on my lap when his local hero did well.

I loved the flippy scroll banner contraption that I could thrust into the air with joy at every 180.

Everyone there loved it. There was something special about how a collective love sweeps you along. By the end of the night, I was deeply invested in a match between two men I'd never heard of three hours previously and roared along with everyone else in the room at each thud of the dart into the triple twenty.

According to the chant (I told you it was rowdy), you had to "Stand up, if you love the darts!". I was on my feet for most of the evening. It was very easy to #lovethedarts. 

I already knew I would fall in love the next day. We were set for a slight change of pace in the Blackpool Tower Ballroom. There we found scores of people swirling round the famous dance floor. Despite it being a warm weekday afternoon, the tables around the dance floor were all occupied, even though some just had cardigans holding the seats whilst the wearers were otherwise occupied with a waltz. 

I knew I would love it before I got there, and of course I did. I had a swelling of emotion and felt ridiculous trying to stem my stinging nose as I first looked around in awe of the decoration, the ambience but most of all of the people bringing the ballroom to life. 

These weren't celebrity dancers; they were 'the regulars' as the lady on the till had told us. The people who live to come and take to the floor with their friends and partners to the sound of the organ on the stage, for the love of the dance. 

It was beautiful. The dancers were the most beautiful I've ever seen. 

I loved the tables of older folk chatting and laughing and drinking tea and deciding when the music moved them to dance. 

I loved the red velvet backed chairs. 

I loved the smiling lady in the pale blue dress gracing a different partner every tune with her presence. 

I loved the cheeky fella with the psychedelic waistcoat and bow-tie making his partners lose concentration by laughing. 

I loved the elegant lady taking the lead with a visitor who wanted to try their feet in the ballroom. 

I loved the lady dancing with the gent in the wheelchair, easily winning the twirling stakes. 

I loved the fact that the Viennese Waltz is the ballroom version of Mr Brightside where no one is left sitting down when it plays. Banger. 

I loved the two older ladies dancing with each other and obviously having a complete ball. 

I loved the tea and cake I enjoyed whilst watching the dancing. 

I loved sitting on the balcony and watching the hypnotic scene below until my face ached from smiling. 

Our love for Dad had driven us to the town of Blackpool, and I was glad to share its spirit and its fish and chips with my loved ones. 

Blackpool is a place that wears its heart on its sleeve. Everyone there is happy to share their passions and they do so with no qualms or worries about how they might appear to others.

To wear a satin ballgown and matching gloves at 1pm on a Wednesday or to dress as a seagull in a packed ballroom on the hottest day ever in Blackpool comes from a place of love. In the current climate of confusion and hatred, we need to cultivate more love in our daily lives. I, for one, will stand up to being a bit more Blackpool and do what I love.

Dance Badajoz Dance!

I found it. I found the choreographed dance centre of the universe.

I didn't know I was even looking for it, but I'm super glad I found it.

It was a slightly unexpected find as I had presumed my visit to Spain would consist mostly of drum playing with only a smattering of dancing. I was wrong. They were dancing in the streets in Badajoz. Literally.

Badajoz, a city next to the Portuguese border, hosts a wonderful carnival every year that lasts several days. I was lucky enough to be invited to play with Batala, a samba-reggae band that I'm also lucky enough to be a part of.

The carnival engulfs the whole city and everyone in it. You can't walk to the supermercado without bumping into a family of bears or having to skirt past a loitering group of Incredibles - one presumes waiting for disaster to strike in order to spring into superhero action. If you're wearing 'regular' clothes, YOU'RE the oddball. It's brilliant.

But enough talk of costumes; let the dancing begin!

The people of Badajoz love to dance. I love to dance. I guess that's why I spent a lot of my youth making up bedroom dance routines or learning the grapevine for the Scout and Guide Gang Show. And I guess that's why, on some level, I joined Batala.    

Yes, we play drums. Yes, we are incredibly good at drumming. But we also like a little movement with our music. I, personally, find it easier to remember the music when I have a dance to go with it. Which is handy as a lot of our songs have dances. Yet when I got to rehearse with the super-band made up of the Badajoz contingent and delegates from Batala bands from around the world, there were MORE dance moves. And heaps of sun-invigorated energy. We were adding extra steps and bending here there and everywhere. There was a dance train and I was running along trying to keep up.

The Badajoz dancing didn't stop at rehearsals either. Party time is always dancing time in Spain, but at these parties, the dancing was a finely tuned, chaotically choreographed affair. Apparently, I missed the best of the dancing on the night before I arrived but the upshot was that there was a dance for every song. The Badajoz band were kind enough to dance the rest of us through the basic moves. So much so, that when certain songs started, there was a cheer and the collective was called into dancing action. Having missed the tutorial night, my favourite was the one where we basically charged around the dance floor like teenagers hyped up on too many Haribo and then let loose in a circle pit. Not the prettiest of dances, but fun.

The Badajoz band had a more civilised dance planned as a surprise for us visitors later in the night. I say civilised, but it's always hard to be civilised when dancing to 'Cotton Eye Joe'. They demonstrated the routine and then urged us to join in. Which we did, with gusto. It's not often you get to line dance amongst farm animals, DC super villains and Frida Kahlo. (A party without costumes isn't allowed during carnival.)

Alongside our recreational dancing, Badajoz is overtaken by the serious business of the main parade on the Sunday with the Desfile de Comparsas. This is when hundreds of people, all dressed in the most elaborate and wonderful costumes, parade through the city, dancing all the way. Each comparsa has a different theme and so a corresponding costume and dance. They are an explosion of colour and material. The time and effort that goes into this is astounding. I'm reliably informed that local comparsas spend the whole year secretly planning what to showcase during the carnival.

The dancing is incredible. There are lines upon lines of people (men, women and children) all dressed immaculately and all doing the same choreographed moves. Incredible is an over-used word, but I completely couldn't work out how, logistically, so many people had learnt the same things and were performing their moves so militarily.

Dancing is a passion and a serious business here. Take a look at some of the comparsas' work here. I loved the Marvel heroes particularly, but if you pick any moment in the video, it will bring a smile to your face. And isn't that why we all dance? That's why I dance - for the joy it brings me and the joy we can spread through dance. Nos encanta bailar.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9a84xN4Teuc