While most of the UK was glued to a TV game lauding deceit, betrayal and treachery, I have been obsessed with an uplifting series about people competing to show skill, friendship and dedication.
One of the most thrilling theatrical events of my life was when, during the interval of the daft Eurovision song contest in 1994, Michael Flatley flew onto the stage in a billowing silk shirt, wearing strangely heavy shoes. He leapt and twisted, turning his feet at impossible angles, whirling round the vast space like a noisy feather. Then, gradually, the stage was filled with scores more synchronised feet and legs, doing miraculous things that enhanced the timpani section of the orchestra. Their arms were unusually tight at their sides, their faces glowing with excitement.
The audience went wild, and so did we viewers at home. This was proper entertainment, not the trivial awfulness of the rest of the programme. This Irish dance is thought to have come from the Celts some 2,000 years ago, and gives the Irish a unique cultural identity. There are lots of theories about the style of the dance: my favourite is that Irish cottages were so small that children were taught to stamp on the tabletop and keep their arms safely by their sides.
The lovely series that has entranced me, Battle of the Irish Dancers, was partly about the huge amount of work that goes into preparing for the competitions that are held in Ireland, and indeed worldwide, wherever Irish folk gather. One of the dancing schools we spy on in the series is run by two elderly women who had been dancers themselves and were passing on all the intricate steps and traditional forms. In the corner of the rehearsal room was another woman sitting at an old-fashioned sewing machine, making one of the dancer’s ornate and unique dresses. Some also wear a tall frame on their heads, over which they put a luxurious wig, so that they are crowned with bouncing curls. Their legs are bare and their feet are clad in heavy black leather shoes, complete with blocks to make the miraculous clicks, bangs and slides.
In future, we are all going to have spare time generated by AI. Traditional Irish dancing is a classic example of the sort of club that can bring a town to life and teach invaluable lessons to the young folk taking part. The women tutors on the programme encouraged their students to have a positive attitude to failure, not to be envious of more successful dancers. They learned to cooperate in group dances, coached into kindness by their tutors. They were all delighted for the winners, but were equally determined to improve if they lost.
One of the most brilliant of the dancers, a 14-year-old, was doing a devilishly difficult routine: feet turning in and out, up and down, legs kicking high, jumps and turns like Nureyev, definitely on her way to a world medal. Suddenly she fell hard on the floor. In the shocked silence, she stood up and walked off in despair. Surprisingly, the judge allowed her to dance again later, when she had recovered. She walked onto that stage smiling and then danced her little legs off. It took enormous courage, and the judges, recognising an exceptional child, gave her the top prize—a lesson for life.
It was a pleasure to watch the television piping a tear, not in grief at the state of the world but in delight at the progress of these children.
I was similarly moved by another group of lucky youngsters at the Wigmore Hall recently—members of the Oxford Cathedral choir school. They sang complex music by Taverner, Warlock and Walton. It must’ve been gruelling to learn their parts but thrilling when they heard it in unison with the others.
It was slightly disconcerting to me that one of them looked remarkably like my friend Kenneth Williams. Like Ken, he was not a conventionally handsome boy, but when he hit those treble notes he was transformed into an angel.
Several very good actors went to choir school, like Simon Russell Beale and Toby Jones—both of whom have eloquent speaking voices. Like my Irish dancers, the Oxford choristers will have learnt so much from their contact with, and practice of, the arts.
I believe the government is planning to bring the arts back into the state school curriculum in England: debating, performing, acting, experiencing all the pleasures of life. I hope it’s one of the plans that it sticks to.
I wonder what will become of the sober little boys in that choir, and my overexcited Irish dancers. As adults, I guarantee they will be cheerful, cooperative, creative and never bored. I hope they don’t lose the childish enthusiasm that gave me such pleasure.
