by Len Goodman
Pete and I arrived at Christ Church in Bexley Heath at 2.45 p.m. and waited for the bride. When she came in she looked absolutely lovely. The ceremony went off without a hitch and after the usual photographs we all went to Bigley Manor. After a glass of champagne everyone sat down to enjoy the meal. The starter had just been put in front of everyone when the Maître d' came over and whispered in my ear. 'Can you please come and take a telephone call from the hospital.' My father had had a relapse and was not expected to make it through the night. Rene had not known if they should call or not but the doctor had convinced her she should. Back at the top table I tapped my glass.
'I'm sorry but I have to go to the hospital.' I explained what I'd been told and said for everyone to enjoy themselves, but it put the mockers on everything. I spent the night at the hospital and when I got back Cherry somehow blamed me for leaving – her mum was none too pleased either. To be honest I don't think she ever forgave me for messing up the wedding. But what could I do?
Within a couple of days Dad improved and was out of danger so Cherry and I went off to Paris. After two lovely days we drove to Dusseldorf for the second half of our honeymoon. Our friend Gunter Dresen had a beautiful log cabin in the White Forest in northern Germany. It was a wonderful place, extremely luxurious and even had a sauna, which was a bit of a novelty if you came from Kent. There was a hide you could go up into, and if you were there before dawn you could watch the deer feeding. It was the perfect place to spend a honeymoon.
After a week at Gunter's cabin we went to do a little bit of teaching with the Dusseldorf formation team. Cherry and I also spent time working on our own competition dances, as the British Championships were due to start in the third week of May. Our German formation team were flying over to England to compete at Blackpool, which was going to make it interesting for us. Back from our honeymoon we went straight to our new house. We had bought it several months before we were married; it was a really nice detached house in York Crescent in Bexley. I'd got the details from the estate agent who made an appointment for us to go and look it over. When we got there who should be the owner but my old headmaster, the one who reckoned I'd amount to nothing.
Not that we had long to enjoy our home: no sooner were we back than we went into some last-minute serious training. Cherry and I were entered into a new competition to be held at Blackpool. It was The British Professional Rising Star Championship, which was open to all but the top six finalists from previous years' British Championships. It meant that anyone in the world could enter, so competition would be stiff. We went for a lesson with Nina Hunt two days before the competition, confident we had a chance of making the final. Nina soon put the kibosh on that. She seemed to find fault in almost everything we did and was always mentioning how well several other competitors were doing. In particular she picked out Harry Koerner from Germany, Sam Sodano from America and Robert Ritchey from Australia. It was not going to be easy.
But there was one thing that I hadn't quite twigged about all the people that Nina mentioned: all of them went exclusively to her for lessons – we did not, so we were not on her list of favourites. Having said that it was great kudos if a pupil who was exclusive to you won a competition; then again perhaps it was just mind games. Nevertheless Cherry and I went back and practised until midnight, determined to do well in Blackpool.
On the Thursday morning we popped over to the hospital to see Dad before heading off on the long drive to Blackpool. To say it rained fails to do it justice; it poured for the whole journey, not helped by the fact that just as we were passing Birmingham on the M1, with the wipers at full bore, the one on the driver's side just flew off. I spent the rest of the journey leaning over, looking out of the passenger side trying to get us there in one piece. We arrived at around eight o'clock that night; I was totally knackered. We stayed at the Claremont Hotel, one of hundreds of hotels and guesthouses along the front; after checking in and unpacking we went down to the lounge for a sandwich and a cup of coffee. Paddy Shanahan was holding court with a group of dancers. Paddy had been dancing for years and was coming to the end of his dancing career; his results had got worse and worse, a mix of age and the tremendous influx of Japanese couples who were, by then, coming to Blackpool. Paddy was what you would definitely call a character – the older he got the harder he found it, but the funnier he became. If he was flagging when it came time for a quickstep he would stoop down to tie his shoelaces. It was amazing how many times Paddy's laces came undone, but it used up 20 seconds and he would miss the first 16 bars of music. Paddy was busy telling anyone who'd listen stories about his dancing years. He had just begun one about his wartime exploits, a time when he was a very popular demonstrator, but having no car he and his wife June, who was also his dance partner, would arrive by bus; he'd be in his tail suit and she in her ball gown. One time they were doing a show at the Locarno in Streatham. Unfortunately it was pouring with rain and they had to walk from the bus stop. June had on a new dress, which she made during the few days running up to their performance; sadly time was against her and instead of finishing it properly by sewing on the feathers she glued them on. As they danced, the feathers, having warmed up in the room and having previously got soaking wet, came unglued. Paddy said it looked like a chicken pluckers' convention; feathers were flying in all directions and the whole floor was covered.
Cherry and I didn't hang around too long as we needed to be early to bed for our big day. I went to sleep going over my routines in my head. Friday morning it was up to the Winter Gardens to practise, which we certainly needed. There were 53 couples entered into our event, with entries from 24 different countries. We were split into four heats, and we had to dance five different dances: the rumba, the samba, the cha-cha-cha, the jive and the paso doble.
Cherry had a new dress, white with red spots with shoes to match; I had traced all over the shoes with a penny then filled in the circles with red paint. The dress, made by a woman called Doris Brace, was a brave decision; Cherry was nervous that it might be too different so she had packed another just in case she lost her nerve – there was no doubt in my mind: I loved it. We were number 12 and I felt great when Alex Warren, the chairman of the judges and the compère, called our number for heat one – I was totally up for it. Nina Hunt was sitting in the front row, but she never even gave us a second glance.
Running concurrently with our competition was the senior, over 35, ballroom championship. It meant that once we had done a round of dances they then did a round, which gave us time to rest and recover. This went on all through the evening. In the third heat there was an American couple, Vernon Brock and Betty Donohue. I didn't see them dance on the night but saw them on the following Wednesday night and he was truly brilliant; his dancing was totally different. Every now and then a couple will come along who revolutionise the standard of performance, taking dance to a new level. The problem with being different is that sometimes people take a while to work out if your different is good or bad; that's exactly what happened to these brilliant Americans. Vernon and Betty baffled the judges, who are not allowed to discuss things amongst themselves during a competition. Should we mark them high or not? It was a bit like the King's new clothes: they were all thinking they were brilliant, but all were frightened in case they were the only one who marked them into the finals.
We were chosen as one of the 24 in the quarter-final; this was to be run in two heats. When we had finished Cherry and I sat down behind the stage, not wanting to be too near. I've always thought it terrible to stand right by the front waiting for your number in case it's not called; if it isn't, you have to walk away in full view. Good old Alex Warren, he called out our number – we were in the last 12. Cherry's spotted dress and shoes were a hit with everyone: they helped us to stand out. While we sat exhausted but exhilarated after dancing in the last 12, Cherry and I talked about our chances. She was convinced we'd make the last six, but I was not so sure. I started going through the list, sure we had no chance. When the n
ames were read out we had made it, but so had Harry and Doris Koerner, Robert and Helen Ritchey along with Sam Sodano and Pat Hogan, the three couples that Nina Hunt had mentioned when we trained with her. I looked round at the other finalists and I realised we had beaten so many couples that we had never beaten before, but neither had we beaten any of the ones in the final. Whether it was adrenalin or a will to win I don't know, but I danced with an energy that I never knew I possessed, added to which Cherry was at her brilliant best. After the final we sat exhausted. Walter Laird stopped by where we were slumped to say, 'I have never seen you dance so well.'
They announced the winners of the seniors' competition first before Alex Warren stood up to announce the results of the Professional Rising Star Latin Championship. 'In first place from Bexley...'
I never heard anything else because I was the only bugger from Bexley! I was up and running on to the floor, with Cherry somewhere miles behind me. I suddenly stopped so she could catch me up and we went over together to the person presenting the prizes. I was absolutely ecstatic when we received our trophy and a cheque; I couldn't help looking across at Nina Hunt and winking.
To be honest we shouldn't have won; Vernon Brock and Betty Donohue were actually way better than us. It was just that the judges didn't know what to make of them. Dancing is no different from anything else. Sometimes you get the breaks, and that's certainly what happened to us that night. Not that it was the end of our week of competing. The next morning I called Mum to tell her what had happened – she was so excited – and Cherry and I spent the whole day in a state of euphoria; we bumped into all sorts of people, all of whom told us how well we'd done. Much of the credit for us competing at all should go to Cherry, because of her great enthusiasm. Of course, I loved doing well and can only try to convey the excitement I felt when we won. I was clear from the outset that doing well in competition got us more work, whether it be demonstrating or teaching.
On the Monday it was the Ballroom Rising Star Professional competition and from an entry of 63 we made it through to the last 24, which was not bad considering we only practised our ballroom dancing when the Latin practice was not going well – we were far from disappointed with the result. In any event our focus was on the professional Latin championships which were to take place on Wednesday. Cherry and I were confident, perhaps too confident, and we fully expected to make the semifinal and maybe the final, bearing in mind that we had come first, with only the top six in the world missing from our earlier competition. In simple terms that put us seventh best in the world, but in actual fact it was a bit like the Olympics where someone tries to compete in both the 10,000 and the 5,000 metres. All the couples that we had beaten a few days earlier beat us, including the fantastic Vernon Brock who made it through to the final having not been able to make it into the last 12 four days earlier; it was a dance too far and a salutary lesson.
Thursday was the day the formation team from Germany was to compete. The day before the competition the teams were allowed rehearsal time, following which several of the other formation teams' coaches tried to get my team banned.
'On what grounds?' asked Madame Ilet, who was in charge of the festival. Her first line of defence was simple: 'This is just a rehearsal and so how do you know that the routine won't change?' That evening Madame Ilet spoke to all the other coaches and told them they were all being ludicrous. Several said we were breaking the rules on steps, in hold, and we included too much solo work; none of it stood up.
We also had a secret weapon, Klaus Hallen, a young guy in the team who was crazy on music, who would later become a very successful record producer; he made albums of strict tempo dance music, with orchestras featuring impersonators singing the songs. He created music for our routines that was totally unique, featuring a little bit of cha-cha, followed by a snatch of samba, a rippling of rumba, a pinch of pasa doble and some jive. This constantly shifting sound-bed enabled the dancers to create a unique style of formation dancing. Probably to everyone's surprise – except us – we came first; it completed a memorable week. I was really pleased because what we did helped to revolutionise formation dancing, mainly because I knew absolutely nothing about it before I started. Previously it had all been very basic and teams would stay in patterns for a long while, whereas I introduced constantly shifting patterns based more on professional routines. With everyone else plodding around, suddenly along came the Germans, not previously recognised for their talent, and blew everyone away.
It was the culmination of a fabulous Blackpool festival, although I didn't realise it was the last proper Ballroom or Latin competition I would ever enter. Why did I stop? I actually got fed up with the politics of the business, the fact that you had to placate and schmooze people that you really didn't like, because you dare not upset them, as they were judges. It cost a lot to compete and the politics of trying to keep yourself in the running by saying the right thing to the right people was not really my thing. One day I said to Cherry, 'Why are we putting ourselves through all this? Do we want to keep slogging our arses over to Balham or up to Connie Grant in Sheffield for lessons, or Eric Hancock in Liverpool? Let's kick it into touch, the school's working well and we'll get no more demonstration work by competing.'
Cherry wanted to carry on, but I talked her round.
We did, however, kind of compete, but just in one-off events over the next couple of years. Probably the biggest one-day event in the dance world was, and still is, the International Championships that are held each October at the Royal Albert Hall. There are only four competitions: the professional ballroom and Latin American championship and an amateur ballroom and Latin American Championship. One of the highlights of the event was a form of cabaret, just before the finals – it was dubbed, 'The Duel of the Giants', in which two couples compete against each other. You had to be invited to participate, an honour in itself, by Elsa Wells who ran this charity event with her husband, Joseph Petenski, a mega-rich businessman.
Elsa Wells called us after Blackpool to see if Cherry and I would like to do it, not in 1972, as she already had her duel lined up, but in 1973. I was a bit reluctant at first, thinking of all the work it would create; particularly as for an exhibition dance there needed to be lifts and that was something we hadn't done before. There were two stipulated dances – a rumba and a jive – along with the exhibition number. Elsa eventually talked us into it. The first thing we did was to call John Delroy to ask if he would help us put together a routine for the exhibition number; John had danced seven times in the duel and was a legend.
I've rarely thought of anyone in my business as a genius, but John was a true one, both musically and as a choreographer, yet in the pecking order of famous people he wouldn't be halfway up the list. He told me on the phone that he only did two-hour lessons, before giving me his address in Lewisham, south-east London. Cherry and I drove over there and parked in his street but we couldn't see anything that resembled a dance studio. There was a man up a ladder so I asked him if he knew where John Delroy's dance studio was.
'That's me,' he said and down he came.
He was in his late forties or early fifties, with long curly hair and a bandanna around his head – not your typical dance coach. He took us down into the cellar of his house where he had a very small studio. John was a New Zealander and half Maori; his ability to bring out the best in his pupils was truly amazing. We sat and discussed which exhibition number we should do and I said, 'With my personality I would like to do a comedy number or at least something with comedy in it.'
John agreed, suggesting an Apache – it's a French dance that features a sailor and a prostitute who fight, a very passionate number. After a little more chat we started the lesson with a 30- minute warm-up which was all ballet – it was the start of me loving ballet. According to John, 'All forms of dance comes from ballet, ballet's the mother.' From then on every lesson started with this warm-up, which I really enjoyed. He showed us some basic lifts, although his ceiling was so low that w
e often had to go out into the garden to do them properly.
Before our next lesson my mission was to find the sheet music for the Apache; John suggested Chappell's, the music shop. A couple of days later up I went to Bond Street where their shop had been for about 150 years; a nice old gentleman said they might have what I was after. 'He took me down into their basement where tens of thousands of folders of sheet music were stored. They had it and I handed over my £2, taking the music, with all the band parts, to John the following week. John had arranged for a keyboard player to be there to play it. It was very clinky clonky, fine for rehearsal but it actually made learning the dance quite hard. I wasn't overjoyed by the tune, but John told me not to worry, it would be fine. John's partner, Christine, helped us with the lifts and for the next 18 months we tried to master every aspect of this dance.
After the 1973 Blackpool Championships in May we learned that we were to compete against Gerd Weissenberg and Helga Steuwe, who'd just won the British Rising Star Championships. It was like the world cup of 1966 all over again – England versus the Germans. In between teaching and demonstrating in Europe and the UK my passion became this Apache. For the Albert Hall event there were always two bands – Victor Silvester did the ballroom and from the other side of the stage Edmundo Ros and his band played the Latin American. It was Edmundo's band that played for the Duel of the Giants, so we needed to get the band parts rearranged for his particular orchestra. I telephoned him to ask if I should get the music arranged.
'What would be simplest, to use your arranger or shall we get it done?' He said his guy would do it, so I went to Edmundo's flat in Swiss Cottage, in North London, to meet the famous bandleader and his arranger. It had the most enormous lounge, like something out of a Hollywood movie. You could have got 12 settees in it; in the corner was a baby grand piano. I sat down with the arranger and he went through the music. To me it still sounded weird beyond belief.