A father’s lot is not always a happy one, far from it in fact. From naught to five, you watch your children grow; you keep them safe in the hope they will flourish. From six to ten the apron strings are slowly removed and you encourage them to be their own person. And how do they repay you? At the age of 11 one of them says, “Dad, I want to be a ballroom dancer and mum says it’s okay!”
Well, you can safely say your life is over at this point. That dream of a loft extension – gone! The bi-weekly trip to the pub – history, and any hope of that life’s time membership to ‘Hooters Monthly’ fades into the mist too. All of your disposable earnings now will be spent on equipping your child with ballroom tackle, driving them all over the country for lessons and competitions and supplying them with ‘junior Valium’ to cope when they lose every contest.
Of course, when they’re younger, the cost of keeping the little darlings in dancing paraphernalia is much cheaper, but as they grow and show no signs of giving up this ridiculous pastime, you may need to acquire a loan.
At best you can only hope you have a son that wants to strut about like fledgling peacock on heat. He’ll only need one suit, a couple of pairs of shoes, socks and shirts, and let’s face it guys, one pair of boxers! However, should you have a daughter it’s the female partner’s regalia that will push you closer to bankruptcy and the general feeling of wanting to take your own life.
After all chaps, this is mummy’s chance to relive her youth through a smaller version of herself, while promoting her and soaking up the adulation if she wins a contest. The local papers will become her best friends as will the shops in the nearest high street. It all begins innocently enough, but the more competitive it becomes the more the domineering the mother hen becomes.
She’ll think nothing of buying 200 dresses, as the better the dress, the better her little angel will perform. Then a friend says, “I know a stylist,” and before you know it bulk orders of hair spray start to arrive, followed by a truck load of shoes, four tons of makeup and 15 barrels of industrial strength tanning solution.
The final insult comes when you have to witness your first contest, after mummy hears the BBC is going to film your child’s dance school! You have to watch the adults prancing about like their tendons have been fashioned from a Sherman tank’s fan belt and then it’s the kids turn. If ever there was a case for quashing a pervert’s hobby, try this. Don’t dress your kids up like adults, stop slapping makeup all over them and finally, don’t film them and put it on You Tube!
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