The dreaded pole
This class gave me the fear. There’s a pole, there’s dancing; shorts and heels must be worn. In my imagination I would be forced to wear stripper shoes and shiny hot pants on a revolving podium.
Fortunately, the taster class at the Pole Dancing School is a ‘safe environment’. Leave your body issues at the door. Chubby knees and rumpled sportswear welcome.
Like many ‘ladies’ I’ve dabbled with the pole. The tables at Courtyard in Leeds on pound-a-pint night often played host to my drunken form. But the student exhibitionist cider haze is behind me and I’m way too demure for that shit now, so to find a class like this so enjoyable was extremely surprising.
The teaching was brilliant. You learn a few moves individually and, before you know it, you’ve got a whole routine down – from fancy walk all the way through to 360 spin. I remembered all the moves and totally forgot my inhibitions, which rarely happens for me in a dance class.
Go with a friend, prepare for bruising, think dancer not stripper, and you’ll come out feeling all confident and sexy and excitable. My arms woke me up in the night to tell me it also has a great muscle toning effect.
But be warned: this is a dangerous skill to have when drunk. It’s like a hypnosis trigger: from now on, if I have a jager bomb and hear the words “it’s Britney bitch” I can’t be held responsible for what follows.