Get Out There And Rumba

Dreaming of setting the heart of some sultry Spaniard aflame, Louise East tried flamenco

Like every good middle-class child, I had been trotted to dance classes from the time I cut my first tooth - ballet for elegance, jazz for style, tap-dancing from some masochistic impulse on my mother's part. I had also been to Barcelona once on holiday; I reckoned I had every requisite to be a natural at flamenco dancing.

That was before I went to Esperanza Linares's beginners flamenco class in the College of Dance on Meetinghouse Lane. Esperanza declared that shoes "with an 'eel" should be worn, so with an eye to comfort I plumped for a stout pair of lace-up brogues - with an 'eel. I added a wide, black, taffeta skirt and felt that it was only a question of time before I was whirling round a taverna with a glowering Spaniard in tight pants devouring me with his eyes. Obviously a few other young women had the same idea; the class was predominantly full of twenty-something women wanting to be Esperanza, plus four slightly harassed looking men all wanting to marry Esperanza.

Straight from a Pedro Almodovar film, she stood before us and instructed us to bend the knees, tuck in our bottoms and throw back the shoulders. When Esperanza did it, she looked proud, sexy and Spanish. When I did it I looked like a rather deformed `S', the proud work of a pre-primary school child. There were some warm-ups and then the serious work - and the problems - began. I could just about manage "Heel, toe, heel, toe, flat, flat, flat", it was when we got into "Heel, toe, heel, flat, flat, toe, flat" that it all started going horribly wrong.

Esperanza smiled radiantly, heeling and toeing it around the room but I could only keep the pattern going for about two beats before it disappeared, along with the image of the tight-panted Spaniard. Confusion. Something akin to panic set in, and I found myself banging my heels randomly and grinning furiously, in an attempt to distract everyone from my complete lack of rhythm.

Looking up, I realised I was not alone; the room-length mirror reflected just three types of facial expressions: the "rabbit in headlamps" look; the "considering world destiny and not concerned with worldly matters" look; and the "infatuated with Esperanza" look. I had something of all three. We banged our way through an hour of clapping (palmas), arm movements and a couple of bulerias, short dances performed solo in a circle of clapping admirers. I can't say my feet ever really grasped the concept but my arms were really very good. And the only damage I did was pulling a muscle laughing when Esperanza declared: "Remember to look proud and use the eyes - we are looking very sexy."

Esperanza Linares can be contacted at 088 2739876.

Frank McNally attempts to overcome the male's natural reluctance to move his hips

Halfway through our first ballroom dancing class, we make an important breakthrough.

Teacher Angela Kirwan changes her directions from "one, two, cha-cha-cha" to "one, two, one-two-three," and instantly the standard improves.

It's pathetic, I know, but men are just not comfortable saying "cha-cha-cha". It is so much easier to say "one-two-three" instead, which sounds like football training, and therefore legitimate activity. Having said that, "three" is one step further than anything I personally have ever done on a dance floor. The improvised waltz which is the only ballroom number I knowingly perform and which can be used safely, even under the influence of drink, is one-third simpler than the standard version. And even at that, I always have to count myself through it, "one-two . . .one-two . . ." like an MC testing a microphone.

The class assembled in Jackie Skelly Studios is a nicely balanced one - 22 women and 10 men; so that when we take to the floor, it looks like the average line-up at an Irish wedding, albeit rather younger. Angela has kindly lent me one of her advanced students, Ruth, for the evening. This is a tough break for Ruth, who has the natural grace of a faun whereas I have the natural grace of a muck-spreader. But I am the sort of challenge she must learn to deal with if she's to survive in the vicious world of ballroom dancing.

One of the big technical difficulties of the cha-cha-cha is that it requires the male to thrust his left leg (A) forward into a space (B) formally occupied by the female right leg (C), which has simultaneously withdrawn to a space (D) behind.

To the male mind, especially those trained in football, this looks like a recipe for tragedy. And notwithstanding evidence that the women present can perform the manoeuvre and have time to file most of their nails before the male leg arrives, all the men instinctively amend the first step, thrusting the lead leg diagonally to occupy a position several feet left of (B).

This is one of the difficulties Angela has to deal with. Another problem is helping the lads overcome the deadly male fear of being seen moving your hips. Still, in the space of a short-class, some progress is made.

Angela will teach this, the foxtrot, the tango, the mambo and the slow-waltz during the ten-week course, which is strictly for beginners. A former All-Ireland champion and half of the first Irish couple to win a British ballroom dancing title, she knows her stuff. And she insists there is nobody who can't dance. "Some people just need to do two or three beginners courses," she says, looking at nobody in particular.

Ten-week ballroom dances run at the Jackie Skelly Studios, Clarendon Street, phone: 677 0040

Katie Donovan shimmies and slithers at a bellydancing class

Animal impersonators, especially in the snake and camel line, should think of taking up bellydancing. The basics of the dance - hypnotic arm weaving and head gyration, and rolling of the hips - are based on the movements of these animals. "We're going to do the half camel, so you might start feeling seasick: remember, camels are called the ships of the desert," says our teacher, Valerie Larkin. She is decked out in a green sequined skirt and tasseled bra-top of her own design. Reassuringly, she has a very trim tum: I was warned before coming to the class that bellydancing can increase the size of your stomach.

A trained ballet, flamenco and folk dancer, and a qualified dance teacher, Valerie is blind, so she checks out our moves by literally feeling whether we are getting it right. She puts her hands on my neck to check my neck-slides.

The trick is to start off making a shelf with your hands and slide your chin along it from side to side. For neck moves, Egyptians favour side to side, while Turks prefer front to back.

We take the floor for the daunting half camel: up on the tippy toes, one hip stuck out, arms floating ceiling-ward; then one foot back flat and stick your bum out; then repeat, sliding forward all the while. "If you do this at a party, you'll be a wow," says Valerie. We are just grateful there is no mirror in the room.

Evelyn, her star pupil, is in full costume, complete with tinkling Egyptian belt. We look on enviously as she moves sinuously across the floor, doing the full camel, her hypnotic gyrations accompanied by the marvellous sound effects of the belt: "You need a lot of control to do the full camel," Valerie reassures us. "It looks so easy, but it is one of the most difficult moves in bellydancing." We're much happier doing dervish spins - most effective if you are wearing a full skirt.

At the end of the class, Valerie does a mesmeric solo with a transparent white veil, culminating in a back bend on the floor.

Bellydancing has not evolved, she stresses, as a come-on to titillate men, no matter what you might find at some of today's tourist resorts: "Bellydancing is 5,000 years old and was developed by women for women. Even today there are many Muslim women who will never perform in front of men. It is a celebration of the part of the body where women's fertility and power are centred."

Valerie Larkin's bellydancing classes are on Wednesdays, 8.30-9.30 p.m., at Dom Marmion Centre in Dundrum. Tel: 01-2951938

Kevin "Joaquin" Courtney takes a Latin dance class by storm

Inside every Irish boy and girl, there's a sultry Latin lover waiting to be let loose - or so we'd like to think. But just because you can drunkenly dance the Macarena at the disco on Saturday night, doesn't make you Ireland's answer to Joaquin Cortez or Maria Pages. As I entered the Parnell Square premises of the Morosini-Whelan School of Dance, I felt confident this Latin lark would be a doddle, that my natural rhythm and innate sensuality would shine through and dazzle the entire class.

I didn't have much male competition - there were around 10 women in my beginner's class, and only two guys, both accompanied by their girlfriends. The lads gave the impression they had been dragged there against their will, and would much rather have been down the pub dancing the Guinness ad. "Don't stick with the same partner all the time - swap around," ordered instructor Paul Cullen. A licence to lambada with at least eight different women - this is going to be fun, thought I.

Sadly, I didn't get to rub pelvises with the ladies, although I did step on a toe or two. Not so much Joaquin Courtney as Michael Flatfoot - less Riverdance, more wading in muddy water. Instead of feeling flamboyant and graceful, I felt awkward and nerdy - not the best state of mind for seducing the senoritas. "You can't learn it all in one hour," reassured Paul, as we finished the first dance, the salsa. "Remember, it takes two years to learn to walk." I, however, seemed to have even lost the basic powers of perambulation, and as I tried to follow the steps, I lurched around the floor as though trying to balance on creaky stilts.

Latin dancing requires a lot of bouncing on the balls of your feet, and quite a share of hip-swinging. It's not too hard to learn the basic steps, but to do them quickly and fluidly takes more time. Paul made the guys stand in a line and follow him, then made us choose our partners for the tough bit: dancing in pairs. One of my partners had been here the previous week, so she had some idea of the moves, but another was about at the same level as me, and we made a pretty pair as we swung aimlessly around in a vain attempt at the cha-cha-cha. "That's a nice dance you've invented," quipped Paul, as I executed a perfect Silly Walk. "You must show me how to do it some time."

The senoritas await at 46 Parnell Square every Thursday at 7 p.m. Arriba!

Eileen Battersby's brush with set-dancing left her looking longingly back at calmer days in a tutu

Recalling distant days of balletic glory, when my acrobatic skills and ability to catch flying bodies always guaranteed me the role of the dashing Prince, off I went to the Piper's Club, assured that I would find the two-hour class "lively enough". Aware that I had never experienced any form of dance other than ballet, I was nervous. After all, though I'm good at cartwheels, distinguishing left from right under pressure still presents problems.

The people gathered inside, waiting for class to begin, looked welcoming. Almost disappointingly unintimidating. All normal, relaxed, wearing ordinary clothes and open expressions. The only overt signs of serious intent were a couple of pairs of flamboyant red shoes. Male/female ratio seemed about equal.

Logistics, not ambition had brought me to an advanced rather than beginners class. Initially my ability to understand English seemed more at issue than the fact that every time I turned I seemed to shoulder-charge men and women of frail physiques. Eileen O'Doherty is a teacher of immense patience and humour, able to smile and encourage her students while also commenting "you're pounding".

Beneath the recorded jigs and reels, the room was shaking to a militaristic beat. Practicality is central to the art of step dancing, with its echoes of a robust minuet. "If you're going to race across the floor," says O'Doherty, "you may as well take your partner with you". Sooner than I expected I found myself, on completing various turns, facing my partner rather than the wall. Still wary of right versus left, I tried to anticipate the required direction; the others helped. "Round the House" and "Contrary" acquired new meaning and there is much to be gained from heeding advice such as "just go the way you're being pulled".

Of the several good things about Irish step dancing is the fact that the mathematical complexity of the steps ensures that all but the most brilliant exponents concentrate on their own feet. Ever the innovator, I crashed about like a happy cossack. My boots crushed the toes of others and most definitely connected with vulnerable ankles, but no one frowned.

Tea and biscuits are served after the first hour and the emphasis is balanced between sociability and technique. No, I ain't no dancer. Yet so encouraging are the teachers and dancers at the Pipers' Club that even the most self-conscious will soon feel at ease.

Ten-week courses in set-dancing are held at 15 Henrietta Street, Dublin 1. Tel: 873 0093.