Me Life Story by Scarlett Moffatt (pdf e book reader .TXT) 📕

everything is stoned (this is a dancing term for spending hours sticking diamonds or crystals on everything), from the handle on your shoe brush to your dress bag. Everything must be stoned for a dance competition, especially nationals. The man-hours that went into stoning, my house was like a bloody sweatshop.

The IDTA Nationals was a weekend-long competition that would determine who was the best dancer in the United Kingdom. There would be around 2,000 spectators, over 100 dancers in each category, six judges and a panel of adjudicators on stage. Each dancer would be given a number to wear on their back which is what the judges mark down, and you could check who was in your category and if your arch-nemesis was in your round by consulting the dance programme. This competition is a huge deal. Some dance mams take nationals too far. Like there’s a line and they’re so far over the line it’s just a dot to them. They would get their child’s face printed on a T-shirt and wear it for the whole weekend. Banners would be made. There would always be one dickhead who would rock up with a foghorn. Some dancers even had custom-made dressing gowns to protect their dance dresses or suits.

My mam and dad were never that obsessive. Yes, they wanted me to do well, but they would sit quietly at the back and just shout my number and name occasionally as I danced past. My mam would sit with a constant smile on her face, not because she was so happy, but to remind me to smile when I came past as I did not have a pretty concentration face. The feeling you would get when you danced past your dance school and everyone would cheer just makes you feel invincible. My mam would eyeball the judges and try and count how many times I got marked down.

When they did callbacks and they call out the numbers chronologically, oh my days. You get a feeling that can only be described as a ‘situation’, you know that situation where you leave the house and about twenty minutes later you get that awful feeling of ‘did I leave the iron on, am I going to have to go back and be late for work or risk it and come back to find my home in ashes?’

That’s just reminded me of something. One time me and my mam got back from a weekend in Blackpool and the house nearly had come down into ashes. My dad had gone out on the Saturday night, had a few jars and got a bit tipsy. Then decided that rather than ordering a takeaway he would put a frozen pizza in the oven. Of course he forgot about that pizza, didn’t wake up to the fire alarm (although the rest of the street did) and was instead awoken by two firemen. I didn’t know people’s faces could turn purple from rage until that day when my dad explained to my mam why we needed a new kitchen.

My favourite part of the Blackpool dance competition experience as a kid was having a whole weekend with just me and my mam. The fun we had going to Coral Island, spending £20 on the donkey derby to win a stuffed toy you could get from the pound shop, and eating nothing but fish and chips and rock the whole weekend. I just loved it. Blackpool as a kid was so magical. I would get so excited about the illuminations (later, when we took my little sister Ava, thinking she would find it as spellbinding as I once did, she said it was a waste of electricity). But the highlight of the weekend was the Blackpool Tower ballroom. Ah the lights, the smell of scones, the old people shuffling round the dance floor and their look of astonishment as an eight-year-old got up to jive … I loved it all, but the pièce de résistance for me was the Wurlitzer. Now, if you’ve never had the good fortune of seeing this in action, it’s a cross between a Dynamo trick and a Britain’s Got Talent act. The organist rises as if by magic through the stage whilst playing the huge theatre organ. It is just hypnotic. Again spoiled by the reaction of my little sister who said, ‘Well yeah, Scarlett, he’s coming up from a trap door, it’s not rocket science.’ She absolutely ruined the illusion for me.

I always enjoyed staying in a traditional Blackpool B&B. The floral carpet that stuck to your feet clashing with the patterned wallpaper that looked like some sort of optical illusion. The chants of the hen and stag dos outside your window as they paraded the streets with inflatable penises and T-shirts that said ‘Saucy Suzy’ or ‘Drink till you shit yourself’. The buffet-style breakfast where you would help yourself to as many rashers of bacons as your heart desired. The cute glasses you would get for your orange juice that were the size of a thimble. Some of my greatest memories were made here. I know Blackpool gets some stick, especially recently, but I hate that people slag it off. I will never hear anybody slag Blackpool off; if they do I will defend it all day. I love Blackpool, it’s the Vegas of England.

I remember one time at Blackpool, the night before a big competition, we went to see the circus in the Tower. Now they had no lights on during the performance and I needed the toilet midway through, so my mam came with me. This was way before mobiles had proper torches so we were trying to find our way down the stairs with nothing but the glare from a Nokia 3310 screen. BAM. I fell from top to bottom. My mam carried me to the toilet to check how injured I was, worried whether I’d be able to perform the next day. But as soon as she saw me in the