I have seen the future and it jigs

A DAD'S LIFE: What Feis hell is this? Nobody denies my girl

A DAD'S LIFE:What Feis hell is this? Nobody denies my girl

IT'S MY own fault, I brought Michael Flatley into the house. When the elder was still small enough to fit into my hand we used to while away wet afternoons watching music videos on YouTube. In no particular order, she liked Is This the Way to Amarilloby Tony Christie, anything by Abba, and Shakira's Hips Don't Lie.

But above all else, the elder loved Riverdance. I got away with a couple of three-minute clips for a while, but soon the full-length DVD had to be purchased. That sated her momentarily but, before long, only live jig-kickery would do. I found myself paying for two tickets to witness the extravaganza in the Gaiety despite the fact that she was so small her weight couldn't hold the flip-seat down.

“I’m sorry sir, you’ll have to buy her a ticket. It’s regulations sir, fire safety and all that.”

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“But she’s three and she’ll have to sit on my knee to see the thing anyway.”

“Sorry, sir. Regulations. Now pay up or get out of the line, there’s a gang of Americans behind you in brand new Aran sweaters.”

But that’s another gripe altogether. A pre-Tiger-death gripe.

Flatley was already long gone by then, kicking up feet of fury or flames elsewhere, but his replacement could still knock the dust from the roofbeams.

Then, that was it. It was as if the Irish dancing itch had been scratched, the Riverdancearc was completed and we could move on with our lives, embrace new fascinations. Mermaids and ponies replaced the divine mullet in her list of favourite things.

Until about six months ago. Her buddy’s mum got on our case to send the child for dancing lessons. Neither the missus nor I were keen; you reach a point where you want to shoot down every extra-curricular suggestion, seeing them only as additional drop-offs and pick-ups in the week. Our lives are governed by the educational timetables, social diaries and hobby schedules of an eight year old and a five year old. The problem was this mother’s persistence was stronger than our resistance, so the elder laced up her first dancing flats.

Since then, she has not stopped jigging. She and her new crew are Dev’s dream made flesh. I catch her, peering into the distance, bouncing and whispering a near-eucharistic dance litany: “one, two, three, step-toe-heel, bounce-bounce- hop, one two three, turn left and skip.” All the time, up and down, side to side, and turn.

Occasionally, this is a fascinating phenomenon to witness as you put your hands on her shoulders for the 17th time that morning and attempt to have her eat her cornflakes and, just for a minute, stop moving. She is a great white shark jigger.

Now we have the Feiseanna. I attended my first last weekend, and am worried for my future. A Feis, as far as I can see, is an opportunity for every child between the age of two and 12 to get up on stage and diddly-eye it right up. And get a medal. Everyone gets a medal. The haul from our first foray is four medals and a trophy. Not bad, but there was so much faux silverware wheeled out of the place the car park clinked. It costs €2 to enter each dance – and there are a lot of dances – so I suppose we got value for money, but at this rate I’ll have to build an extension for the trophy room.

What bothers me though is my response. Demented and sniffy like a hormonal teenager at having to give up a sunny Sunday afternoon to sit in a poxy school hall, I ruffled my newspaper with the other dads and sipped milky tea, only clapping when my own blood graced the stage. I soon twigged the “everyone’s a winner” medal distribution philosophy and went back to my read. But, in the hornpipe, she didn’t make the medals in her age group. What Feis hell is this? Nobody denies my girl.

Competitive hackles have risen, the Gael has been stirred. This will not happen again. If I am to suffer confined Sundays into the future, it will be in the company of dancing, winner maidens.

The bouncing is now encouraged. I have seen the future and it jigs.