Skip to main content

The rise of the Baby Ho

My school discos were way back in the Golden Age of the Eighties. They were fab.

Chomping down Smith's Square Crisps and chugging back Fanta whilst wearing satin pedal pushers and a scratchy nylon batwing candy-pink top from Chelsea Girl. There we all were, 10 years old or so, dancing around our plastic handbags to Duran Duran and (swoon) WHAM! while the spotty boys from our class tried to do head spins without splitting their tight grey shine-effect slacks or mussing their piano ties. Sadly, my terminally fusty Olds wouldn't let me have a Lady Di hairdo, making my fuzzy ponytail look hugely dorky next to the cool kids with their heavily hairsprayed flicks and... oh envy...super-long rat tails.

Firstborn went to a school disco recently. She's only eight years old, so the overprotective mama in me was thinking what's wrong with a good ol' fashioned party, you know, with games and prizes and cute stuff like that? But apparently these days even young kids turn their little noses up at pass-the-parcel, preferring instead to shake their non-existent booties to Katy Perry, Beyonce and Lady Gaga.

This is all fine, no problem, not a million miles away from what we used to do all those decades ago. Except for the fact that I'm pretty sure we didn't look like tiny hookers...

Our clothing may have been a major fire risk, being made from 100% drop dry nylon, but at least our flesh was decently covered up. The more risque amongst us may have flashed a bit of knee or a cheeky shoulder might have emerged from our baggy tops during an especially energetic dance move, but that was about it.

Ever-mindful of the dorky angst I suffered from as a pre-teen (the 'Willy Bears' sweatshirt that had me laughed out of Friday night Youth Club being one especially painful experience), I swore long ago that my daughters will never have to suffer the same level of humiliation. Sp Firstborn was dressed in clothes she had picked out herself and proclaimed as cool; a tutu-like skirt, a black t-shirt, Converse. She even managed to brush her hair.

We get to the disco. We're surrounded by what can only be described as an invasion of Baby Ho's. There's more flesh on display than in a late-night MTV rapper special. Hot pants teamed with knee-high boots. Glittery crop tops showing off little-girl-round tummies. Spaghetti straps and mini-skirts. Daisy Dukes and Uggs. Sequinned body-con. Leopard print! And then there's the blusher, the eye-shadow, the lipstick, even one case of what looked like diamond-tipped false eyelashes (could have been a nasty case of pink eye though, hard to tell with strobe lighting...)

In comparison, Firstborn looks like a nun. A beautiful, gorgeous, lovely nun.

In the car on the way home, Firstborn tells me: "That was kind of boring, Mummy. It was really loud and the boys wouldn't dance and some of the girls were talking about being In Love and how they couldn't live without make-up. I wish I'd brought my Littlest Pet Shops so I could have played with them instead. Discos are weird."

Guess I don't need to worry too much... yet.


Popular posts from this blog

Apologies for being incommunicado this week and hope none of you out there are too distraught not to be receiving the usual almost-daily MotV missives. The reason for the silence is that I'm up to my neck, metaphorically-speaking, in research papers for my first grad course assessment. This experience has made me realise how rigorously un-academic I am in my thinking. It has also illuminated how reliant I am on red wine in order to get through endless evenings typing furiously on my laptop, not to mention the fueling of increasingly colorful curses that I feel obliged to aim at the University's online library system which consistently refuses to spit out any of the journals I'm desperate for (I refuse to believe this is 100% due to my technical incompetence...)Oh well, if this is the price one has to pay in order to realize a long-cherished dream then it's not all that bad... No one ever said a mid-life career change would be easy. Wish me luck!

Recommended & the Mahiki dance-off

My GFs and I went to Mahiki last night, great fun as usual but made me feel a bit old; it seems that Thursday night is the playground of the just-past-pubescent. Oh well. Good tunes though, so whatever.In between taking over the dancefloor - the youngsters may have youth on their side but frankly that shrinks to insignificance in the face of two decades of clubbing experience - one of my GFs and I got into a conversation about why so many people are full of bull.It appears that many people we come across are content to live their lives in a superficial way, skimming the surface of what life has to offer and equating the ownership of stuff (cars, houses, boats, jewelry, designer clothes) with happiness. They converse in terms of status, strut their possessions as a measure of their own self-worth, take themselves far too seriously, are quick to judge others, easily annoyed, complain a lot about very little and their worries seem to far outweigh their joys. Personally, I think all that…


Following on from the realisation that my lungs are filthy and if I don't give up the smokes soon I face a life of wheezing at best, off I trotted to see the charming Dr T.

Dr T, who's charming by virtue of the fact that he's less jaded than the other doctors in the surgery (in other words, he treats patients as if they're human beings with a right to NHS services rather than annoying fraudsters trying to gain sympathy for imaginary illnesses) promptly put me on potentially habit-forming drugs to get me off the evil weed. Something doesn't feel quite right about this but since I'm so pathetically grateful to have a doctor who's willing to give me more than two seconds of his precious time, I have acquiesced to his demands.

Anyway, this wonder drug is called Champix and promises to have me merrily chucking my smokes in the bin in no time. Or it will if I can get past the possible side effects, the highlights being abnormal dreams, nausea, flatulence, snoring, …