I was so happy for 7p.m. to come. Nanny and Pappy were there and we made our way down to the disco.
‘Can I have a mocktail, Grandad?’ I asked. ‘That girl’s got one over there and it comes with a big straw that looks like a parrot.’
‘Is it on the all-inclusive drinks list, like?’
‘Yeah, Grandad. Look, it’s called a virgin piña colada, it just sounds like a pineapple milkshake.’
So my grandad Tommy came back with a tray of drinks and we enjoyed the hotel entertainment. It was a magician who was making doves in birdcages disappear. I had nearly sipped my way through a quarter of my drink and I honestly couldn’t stomach any more. ‘It tastes too funky, this drink, I don’t like it,’ I moaned.
Some things don’t change… My smile is still this big now when I see a piña colada.
‘Is it too milky?’ My mam grabbed my drink to have a try of it. ‘Bloody hell, Tommy, it’s got alcohol in this!’
‘Has it? I asked for a piña colada like she said.’
‘No, a virgin piña colada, that’s the one with no alcohol in it,’ she giggled. Luckily I didn’t drink too much of it otherwise I’d have been the only pissed nine-year-old in the resort. But hey, what a way to have your first ever alcoholic drink.
Me and my dad would also like to go and watch either Only Fools and Horses or The X-Files in a sports bar next to the beach. We would sit there for hours watching it. Apart from the X-Files introduction (‘do le do le do’), where an eye would zoom in. That is when I’d have to close my eyes at that part and my dad would tell us when it was over. That would freak me out.
My mam would moan, ‘Come on, we need to go back to the hotel now, there’s another cabaret show!’
‘Just one more episode and we will, Mam, pleeeease.’ Me and my dad had flown all the way to Spain just to sit in the shade and watch a show you could watch back at home.
I just loved that there was always a twist in The X-Files. I think part of me believed it was real as a kid, because my dad used to say that it’s a documentary. So I did for a good year think that it was based on true events. I did think, ‘Oh God, I can’t believe that we’re living in a world where this happens and no one is even talking about it!’ I used to get really caught up in it. No wonder I’ve turned out the way I am!
The X-Files was my guilty pleasure back then. Do you know what it is now? Love Island. Me and my mam binge-watch it. She’ll kill me for saying this, and I know it’s a weird thing to watch with your mam because it is very rude, but we record them all and watch three or four off the trot. We love it.
We all giggled so much on that holiday. I made friends who I said I would be pen pals with forever and that we would all meet up again. One letter later (as yes, I was slightly odd as a child and didn’t do the whole email thing, I’m traditional and like the feeling of licking an envelope shut. If they still had them I’d probably have a carrier pigeon to be honest) and we never spoke again. My dad’s sunburn might have faded but the memories will last forever.
I loved our family holidays. If we didn’t go somewhere in Spain or Greece we would go away to a caravan park and stay in a static, and one year we thought we would be really adventurous and stay in a tent. Now I love a caravan, especially when it’s raining and you can hear the raindrops bouncing off the roof. Me and my dad had a hilarious trick: when my mam went to the toilet, we would run out with loads of bread, throw it on the roof and then it’s like a scene from an Alfred Hitchcock movie – seagulls literally take over. You think they’re going to lift the caravan off the ground. My mam is petrified of birds, you see, it’s a sickening sense of humour I know but it makes us laugh.
I love getting in from a day of metal detecting and crabbing and sticking on all the bars on the gas fire whilst watching Countdown, chilling while my dad makes jacket potatoes for everyone. Caravan holidays have a special place in my heart. Camping holidays in a tent though, they can fuck off. I went on one when I was fourteen in August 2005 and never ever again.
We went to Blue Dolphin in Scarborough and although we didn’t need any basic survival skills as we had an electric hook-up, it still didn’t make life easier. Firstly it took about two hours to put up a four-man tent, as it had rained the night before so we had to put plastic sheets underneath the tent so we didn’t slide away. There was that much plastic all you had to do was move slightly or even breathe heavily and the whole tent sounded like a crisp packet rustling. On the first night it was so cold me and my mam had all our layers of clothes on, plus a sleeping bag and a sheet, and even then we had to put the hairdryer on and use it as central heating.
If this wasn’t bad enough, this was the night that in my family we refer to as Bluntgate. We were woken up (as tents are wafer thin) by a family of ten singing their lungs out.
‘You’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful it’s true. I saw your face in a crowded place, I don’t know what to do …’
James Blunt’s ‘You’re Beautiful’, repeatedly from one in the morning for a full hour. As much as I love that song and it was huge at the time it now makes my heart hurt with anger when I hear it. If that also wasn’t bad enough, we all bunched together in the one compartment of the tent and Robert and Yazymn (my mam’s godchildren and my good friends) decided they wanted to squeeze in too. So now we were cold, tired and squashed. When I finally drifted to sleep I heard my dad let out a scream. It was still dark outside and we were all annoyed to be woken up. Turns out little Robert didn’t want to wake anyone to ask if someone would take him to the toilet so he just wet himself (he was only five so we let him off). But he had accidentally leaked all over my dad’s only coat. Which meant my dad was walking around for the rest of the holiday in polo shirts with no jacket on when everyone else had coats, scarves, hats and gloves on.
Despite all this it was still a hilarious holiday where we laughed from start to finish. Even though I was fourteen years old, every night in the club house I danced to all the classics: ‘Chocolate’, ‘Superman’, ‘YMCA’. It was even funny when things didn’t go to plan, like when we went to Scarborough Fair and it started raining cats and dogs so we all got soaked and ate fish and chips followed by a lemon-top ice cream in the rain on the beach.
See if you sit and really think about the last five items you bought, I bet you’re like me and you can’t off the top of your head. Yet I can almost relive every moment of that camping trip. As I have got older I’ve realised that your time is the most valuable gift you can give to anybody. Whether it’s a holiday abroad, a day on the beach or a weekend camping trip, it’s good to make memories away. As I was drifting off to sleep thinking about my old favourite book, Aesop’s Fables, a few of the quotes would stick in my mind. One that always did was:
‘Adventure is always worthwhile.’
Chapter Four
STRICTLY SCARLETT
During each BBC series of Strictly Come Dancing, approximately 57 litres of fake tan are used (my idea of heaven).
Conspiracy theorists say there are secret underground tunnels running from Blackpool Tower to the Winter Gardens that were once used by performers. Reports that Tupac and Elvis are currently held down there are unconfirmed.
Bruce Forsyth (who will sadly be missed, he really was the king of Strictly) was actually older than sliced bread. His own mother would have had to slice her own bread until Baby Bruce was four months old.
I remember my tummy feeling the same as it did on my first day of school. I didn’t just have butterflies in my stomach, I had the whole fucking zoo. I was sitting in the hallway on a bottle-green pleather (plastic leather) chair at Dianne White’s dance school with my mam. It was a clammy day and my bum was sticking to the seat. I was wearing a little white sparkly dress and silver sparkly dance shoes all ready for my first ever dance medal test. I felt like a princess, like a really nervous princess.
It was Sunday 31 August 1997 and I was only six. There were so many of us crammed in the hallway, packed in like a tin of
sardines, as everyone was crowding round the little TV. They all gasped in horror and some even wept as they watched the horrific images on the BBC. The banner across the screen read: ‘Princess Diana dies in Paris crash’. We can all remember where we were on that day and that’s where I was. I remember feeling guilty that I was there dressed as a princess when the real princess would never get to wear dresses like that again. Such a sad day.
Loving the sky background – I’m like a floating princess.
I can hear you say it, why ballroom and Latin dancing? Well, my mam had a love of Come Dancing, the original. The huge dresses, the old-time music, the grandeur of it all. My mam would have loved to have learnt to dance so she took me along to her dream hobby. I thought it was the greatest thing since sliced bread. Yes, it was not the coolest of hobbies to have at that time as the kids at school often taunted me, ‘You do old-fogey dancing, granny dancing.’ But I didn’t care; I couldn’t wait to get this medal test over and done with so I could start going to competitions. I’d show them kids at school when I’d waltz into the classroom and paso-doble past everyone to the front of the class to show the teacher my huge first-place trophy (at least that was the dream anyway).
The medal test was as terrifying as I thought it would be. There was one sole judge sat behind a pine desk at the bottom of the dance floor; she was sipping black coffee which smelt so strong I felt like I was getting high from the caffeine. She had sparkly glasses on, red lipstick that bled into her creases and her face looked like she had just smelt dog shite. She had an ‘I’m it, you’re shit’ sort of look. You know the type of woman I mean – mid fifties, wears nothing but beige cardigans and white trousers. Miserable she was. I remember thinking a woman with such an angry face should not be allowed to wear nice sparkly glasses. With trembling tot fingers I handed over my dance sheet and I danced a cha cha cha and a foxtrot, smiling through gritted teeth all the way through and trying to forget I felt as if I was going to throw up. ‘Highly commended’ I was awarded. Not quite a distinction but I was on my way.
Now I am not meaning to sound a bighead; as you know I am not one to boast. Saying that, I must admit I got canny good at dancing. I won lots of regional competitions so I got to represent the Tyne Tees at nationals. I got into quite a lot of national finals and I did pretty well. I have around 600 trophies and shields. And where do you keep them, Scarlett? Pride of place on the mantelpiece? Maybe a few in that drawer everyone has that’s full of old batteries and mystery keys? Nope, they are all collecting dust in the attic. There is no trace of my dancing days in my mam and dad’s house, what with my mam’s love of minimalism.
When I was younger, my dad put up some varnished wooden shelves above my bed to display some of my more impressive trophies, so until I was about eleven my bedroom was like a little dancing shrine. Sometimes paranoia would kick in on a night and I’d lie awake staring at the trophies thinking, God, if these shelves broke all of a sudden I’d be disfigured or even killed by a mountain of my own trophies. I’d literally be a victim of my own success.
My first ever memory of a dance competition was when we had a fun competition at Redcar Bowl (by fun competition I mean it wasn’t for a title, but believe me what with all the dance mams it was never particularly fun – it was more friendly competitiveness). My mam spent the whole of the night before the big comp sewing red sequins onto a black skirt. Bless her, she had plasters on her fingers from where she had pricked herself but she knew it was worth it as I was so excited to wear the outfit. However, nothing is ever plain sailing for the Moffatt family and once we got there we were told it was regulation dresses only and no one could dance with sequins or crystals on a dress. I had to borrow Debbie Brown’s dress which was far too big for me and I just look back now and feel so bad that my mam’s efforts were never seen on the dance floor. I do remember coming fourth that day though and standing in the line-up and seeing my mam’s smiley face, it made me so happy inside.
As time went on and I got older, I realised that winning at competitions wasn’t just about how passionate you were about dancing, or your efforts, technique or your presence on the floor, but you also were judged on how you looked (similar to life really). So when I was about twelve or thirteen I told my mam I didn’t want to look washed out under the glaring lights of Blackpool’s Winter Gardens ballroom. So I was ready to try a product that is now one of my best friends: fake tan.
The first time I properly fake-tanned, I’m not talking about a bit of bronzer, I’m talking full-on spray tan. Me mam bought a spray tan machine and the solution, and I stood in the bath while I was sprayed to within an inch of my life. I remember going to bed and feeling like a professional with my little golden glow. However, the horrific sight that greeted me in the mirror when I woke up on the morning was not golden. I was glowing all right. A radioactive glow. I was luminous. I wasn’t even orange, I had literally invented a new colour. A cross between David Dickinson’s mahogany tan and a jar of piccalilli. (That said, it wasn’t as bad as the time I used moisturiser before getting a spray tan and it went green. I was dancing around the dance floor like Princess Fiona from Shrek.)
If you’re reading this and you’ve danced before or still dance you will understand the importance of making sure that 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.
Me Life Story Page 4