Copyright expressandstar
Any parents will know the drill: when you have kids, your previous life of carefree sociability takes a hit. It’s unavoidable, and soon it becomes rather funny that your bambinos and bambinas have ended up with an events calendar far more full than your own. My proud three-year-old diva of a daughter enjoys more than her fair share of party invites and play dates. As such, she now has a diary that would have put Princess Margaret’s to shame, and certainly leaves mine looking like that of a pre-pumpkin Cinderella. Still, this is the natural order of things, and when embraced, it can yield a lot of fun for yourself in some rather surprising places. Exhibit A, ladies and gentlemen: the holiday camp kids disco. Welcome to Dadfest… Last week, sproglet and I took a beautiful staycation break together at one of a well-known Dutch holiday company’s UK forest resorts. I’d been looking forward all year to a few days of just the princess and me, without a care in the world other than how many pancake breakfasts we could shovel down our gullets. She was as excited as I was, and upon our arrival her enthusiasm didn’t wane. Luckily, despite it being the middle of October, good weather held out and we were able to enjoy all of the delights our resort had to offer - from boating to biking, copious water sliding, and even a bit of teddy bear making and arcade gaming thrown in for a bit of ‘indoor chill’. Our first holiday as just diva and daddy, it was the most precious week I have ever experienced, and doubtlessly the best of my life. Here’s to it being the first of many – until she feels the inevitable call of Club 18-30 in 15 years time, that is. Though this too, I suspect, will make me proud. In preparation for our quaint forest break, I did find myself thinking back to my own heady lads’ holiday days, when the ‘unholy trinity’ (Magaluf; Aiya Napa; Skeggy – textbook) was embraced to the fullest, and babysitting involved caring for fellow 20-year-old delinquents rather than the bright and bouncing fruit of my loins. This was clearly to be a very different kind of holiday, where any party to be found would be all about my pocket poppet… Or so you would think… Getting into the rhythm of our delightful daddy/daughter recess, it was a true joy not to be indulging in the kind of hedonism that daft jollies of the past had involved, and settling down each evening with a good book and a cuppa after a fun-filled day of seeing my little one do nothing but laugh and smile, I wondered why on Earth I’d ever wasted time in Costa Del Sol cocktail bars at all. Still, boys gotta be boys, and it’s generally better to regret the things you did than those you never tried. Anyhow, as the last night of our break approached, Twinkle and I got ourselves ready for what would surely be the perfect treat for her, and would round off our week like a peach. I’d been told about the Thursday night kids’ disco the previous day, and knowing how much my daughter loves to dress up and dance, was resolved to take her along - even if perhaps this meant a bit more of a taxing evening for myself. Approaching the venue, I breathed in deeply, and prepared for a room full of screaming little ‘uns at the height of their manic exertion. I wasn’t disappointed, but what eventually joined it was both hilarious and beautiful. First on the floor, my little princess quickly tempted other little move busters to come and shake their stuff, and for a while, as Baby Shark and the like dominated the DJ’s playlist, the kids were in control. Yet, about an hour in, everything changed. As if some Tolkienesque troubadour had lit the beacons of Gondor, the DJ let the Macarena shine through his speakers, and it was a call to arms for every tattoo toting bloke in the room. Within milliseconds, confused and bewildered toddlers were evacuating the dancefloor to make way for the truly spectacular phenomenon that is the ‘group dad dance’. Without realising I’d even left my chair, I was in the middle of the pack like a man possessed, gyrating and arm folding to the immortal Los del Rio classic like it was about to go out of fashion (which, of course, it had done many moons ago). My daughter was somewhat perplexed – as, in truth, was I. But I quickly realised that this kids’ disco had unwittingly brought together a band of other ex Costa Del Sol cocktail bar beasts – and said beasts were now being set free. The kiddies started to laugh - my daughter chief among them - but for the dads, this was serious business, and it didn’t stop with the end of the track. Barbie Girl came on next, and heralded half an hour of delectable dadfest power. By the end of the disco, I was as exhausted as I’d expected to be, though not for the reasons I’d anticipated. Through 90s cheese pop telepathy, the disco dads had had the time of our lives and shown the kids (and their mamas) that we’d still got it - if, indeed, we’d ever had it at all. From now on, it’ll be me dragging Poppet to the kids’ discos, not the other way round. As I said, boys gotta be boys (even though dads gotta be dads), and there’s plenty of fun to be had as both. Bring on The Ketchup Song…
