IT'S SNOW F'ING WHITE

Another dance practice night completed for the forthcoming Y-M-C-A Village People routine at the 50th birthday party. This time it was at T's house in Heysham and the usual suspects sweat a lot for a couple of hours whilst trying to master a dance sequence over and over again. T had put on some nibbles and then the wine comes out.

On my previous YMCA blog, I mentioned about R, one of the girls who's participating in the routine. By day, she's a fairy princess super-duper nurse. A great wife and great cook. She doesn't swear and is never crude or vulgar. She's blonde, has great teeth, keeps herself fit and has a figure to die for. She's one of those people who enters a room and it's like stardust surrounds her, baby lambs frolic and birds twitter. People begin to whistle, smile and pat dogs heads. She is goodness and light. She is Snow White, Walt Disney Inc. personified, a vision of loveliness. That is, until nightfall, and she has white wine....

After 2 glasses of wine, R she takes on a whole new personna. She burps like a bloke. Not a John Inman or Jeremy Paxman blokey burp, but we're talking hairy-arsed Parachute Regiment on 3rd tour of duty and after 18 pints of lager kind of bloke-burp. She expels a gutbuster so fearsome in its intensity, it could throw an experienced rider off their horse. The horse incidentally, would need to put down afterwards through going lame and being forever spooked and startled by a noise not too dissimilar to a car backfiring. That's if you could catch the horse. The rider on the other hand would be in Stoke Mandeville undergoing years of psychiatric care for PTSD and spinal rehabilitation...

Without a hint of warning or embarrassment, she positions her buttocks in a sideways tilt from her seating position and lets rip with a short volley of trumps whilst her facial features take on a look of total innocence. To complete the image, she lets her index fingers point out each trump in rhythm, similar to a musical conductor in headphones, closing his eyes and counting in his orchestra. Where is the shame? There is NONE, nil, zilch, nothing. No remorse whatsoever that she has let rip in T's beautifully decorated house whilst we all stand there in our YMCA poses with mouths gaping open in stunned silence.

R tends to announce mid-dance that she's off to lay some cable (have a poo). She thrusts her backside at the other village people dancers begging it to be slapped... Lapses into either pogo dancing or mincing morris dancing at inopportune moments.... Fails miserably to pour out diet coke into glasses and instead lets it explode into (my) face and crotch area whilst clutching her skinny jeans and claiming 'naaahghhh, stoppit, there's bloody spillage now, I think I've just wet myself'. Not so much Snow White, more Slush White. R is a complete contradiction. A regular Dr. Jekyl and Nurse Hyde. It doesn't bear thinking about what she's be like on Newcastle Brown...

Lavatorial humour aside, for all that I'm so glad I know her, have her as a friend and thank my lucky stars that she makes me laugh as much as she does.

One more practice night to go at R's house. I think there'll be spillage...