Zero to naked in 6 minutes

The line of girls outside the club immediately reassured me that I wasn’t totally out of place.  I had feared that I would be surrounded by 20 year old nubile young Paris Hilton look-a-likes, but I was relieved to see that the participants were both old and young, fat and thin, self-confident and nervous – the course had apparently attracted women from all walks of life and indeed each woman there had her own different agenda.  Had I been asked to rate the class and decide who was ‘most likely to become a stripper’ ranging from 1 to 10, with number 1 being ‘most likely’ and number 10 being ‘least likely’, I’d have given myself a 4 or a 5, and yet there were plenty of 9s and 10s there too.  Phew!

After we’d all sufficiently looked each other up and down and formed our own individual first impressions, we were ushered into the building, for most of us the first time we had set foot in a ‘gentleman’s club’.  There was a large dance floor, a raised platform at one end with 2 poles from floor to ceiling.  Chairs and sofas lined the walls, which would no doubt be filled with gentlemen and maybe even the odd gentlewoman later on that evening.  It was still early, however, and our class of approximately 30 females was first divided into 2 groups.  The first group would learn the art of ‘engaging the client and table-dancing’ and the 2nd group would learn the basics of ‘pole-dancing’ and then the groups would change over later that evening.

Engaging the client involved learning how to walk (or strut) sexily, how to sit down next to a potential client, make brief small talk, ‘close the deal’ and finish by doing a private dance for the client in question.  We learnt that a stripper is really expected to close the deal within the space of just 2 three-minute songs, failing which she must yield to another contender waiting in the wings to take her place.  I wondered how I’d ever manage such a short turn-around.  I wasn’t sure this kind of fast-paced sales was my forte.  I wasn’t inclined to lunge for the jugular so quickly. I was sure I’d be more likely to engage the potential victim into deep and meaningful conversation for 15 minutes, asking him all kinds of inquisitive and inappropriate questions about his life and reasons for his presence at the club.  Perhaps not the most successful or even sexiest tactic!

We had to practise our seduction techniques in pairs.  We were all still relatively self-conscious but slowly warmed up to the task in hand and to each other, especially when the next task involved actually disrobing in front of each other.  We began to chat and find out the motives each of us had for doing the course.  Some were doing it out of curiosity, just for the fun and experience.  Some wanted to learn how to be sexier for their partners.  In some magazines, it had been advertised as a kind of ‘female-empowerment’ class, and so many were women who hoped to gain more confidence in themselves, in their bodies, and hence in their relationships.  Surprisingly very few were those who actually intended to take up ‘stripping’ as a full-time career.   As we learned the basics of slowly lowering our flimsy dresses seductively to the floor, the occasional stroke of a limb, a digit placed tantalizingly in the mouth, turning our bodies a full 360 degrees, I imagine I wasn’t the only one vaguely amused and aroused by what I had got myself into.

The pole-dancing lesson was more challenging.  We had to learn the techniques of spinning around the pole, landing elegantly on the dance floor, facing the right direction, while avoiding breaking an ankle in our high stilettos.  Easier said than done!  By this point, all our inhibitions must’ve long since disappeared, as we all writhed face down on the floor with our bottoms in the air.  I remember thinking that the women’s magazines were right to advertise this course as they did.  Fat, wobbly cheeks, stretch marks, dimples and cellulite were all present, and yet all these women looked extremely sexy because of their apparent (and refreshing) lack of self-consciousness.   This was female-empowerment indeed.

You know you live in Tenerife when….

1.  You arrange to meet someone at 2pm and they don’t turn up until 4.15pm (and you can’t be bothered to get angry).

2.  Every other bar and restaurant sign in English that you pass contains a spelling or grammatical mistake.

3.  You have lived here for donkey’s years and you still don’t know how to pronounce Los Gigantes properly.

4.  You ask for workers’ prices when you order a drink at the bar (even though you’d NEVER dream of doing that in the UK).

5.  You stay in the outside lane of all roundabouts for fear of never being allowed to exit the roundabout from the inside lane.  Especially at Los Cristianos roundabout of death.

6.  You use the word ‘local’ (to refer to premises, office space, retail space etc) even if it’s the only word you know in Spanish.

7.  While driving on the motorway, you put on your indicator to show that you are slowing down even though you are clearly not going to turn right or left.

8.  You have lots of acquaintances here, but you haven’t quite managed to make any real friends.

9.  You went to see Elton John, just because he was doing a concert here, even though you would never have bothered splashing out on a ticket in the UK.

10.  You keep meaning to start Spanish lessons, but never quite get round to it.  Mañana, mañana…

11.  You’ve driven by the police station at 7:30am and seen 140 people already in line for their NIE number, thinking to yourself, ‘damn immigrants’.

12.  Somewhere along the line, ‘claro’ and ‘vale’ started rolling off the tongue. You use the word ‘ferreteria’ on a daily basis even though you have uttered the equivalent in English about 3 times in your life.

13.  You refer to the three types of police as, the leery guys in black, the gruas ones, and the other guys. You’re still not 100% sure what the last group do.

14.  You know the journey from home to work is 40 minutes. That’s 8 to get there, and 32 to park.

15.  You go back to Blighty and they’ve got better tans than you do.

The art of email is already all but dead

Hey ho, what’s going on?  It seems to me that the art of e-mail conversation has already died, even before it really had the time to gain a good foothold!  For a few fleeting years in the late 90s, I enjoyed endless lively, always humorous, often long-winded debate with friends via e-mail – arrangements were made, issues were discussed, nights out were planned in meticulous detail, opinions were expounded, feelings were expressed. Most of us worked in boring offices and therefore conversing with friends on e-mail always took precedence over more tedious work duties, and the fact that we were wasting countless hours of so-called valuable work time didn’t seem to matter. Oh how things have changed since those heady days of irresponsibility…now, unfortunately, it is with much chagrin that I open my inbox, inevitably only to find the odd group e-mail from a far-flung pal who I can scarcely remember (no offence intended to far-flung pals), alongside a few e-mails suggesting how to improve my penis size. Death to Facebook, Bebo and Myspace and other such websites that have contributed to the dearth of e-mails in my box, that’s what I say! They are the ones to blame for the assassination of e-mail conversation!

Strike it fit!

I realise there are two sides to every story and I am aware that perhaps there are some very good reasons why the the London Underground staff are so hell bent on continuing with this ridiculous urge to strike, whether it be due to engineers’ strife, the threat of job losses, or the proposed reduction in manned offices at tube stations.  All very good arguments to down tools, I’m sure, but I’m beginning to think that the strike is all really part and parcel of Boris’s campaign to get everyone on their bikes.  Seriously, think about it, Boris has been banging on about getting Londoners fit for months.  He’s introduced his very own bike scheme, he’s dropping ‘Olympics 2012’ into every conversation and news conference, he’s encouraging people to get fit.  And yet London’s citizens still insist on dragging their ever-increasing asses onto the over-crowded tubes each day.  Still they insist on changing at Leicester Square on the Northern Line only to get on the Piccadilly Line to take them to Covent Garden.  How lazy are we?

There I was dragging my feet along Talgath Road this morning at 7am pondering the benefits of residing in London whilst gaily singing the lyrics to ‘Flashdance, What a Feelin” when all of a sudden it occurred to me that the Underground strikes will no doubt lead to an increase in an uptake of Boris bikes.  Sickened commuters everywhere will be forced to hire a bike or take to the footpaths rather than facing the inevitable crush on the capital’s buses.

I for one opted to hit the road from Hammersmith to South Kensington this morning rather than attempt to navigate the complicated bus system around Hammersmith station.   Some things just aren’t worth it.

So there it is!  Boris will continue to send the Underground staff out to the picket line and Londoners all over town will be forced to use their legs to get about town.  Genius!  Go Boris!