A pole dancer’s Instagram can be a very weird place. If you’re anything like me, you’re following countless inspirational men and women, who spend their Sunday’s doing yoga in their garden’s before spending all day practicing pole then rounding the day off with doing a weeks worth of meal prep. Well guess what folks, in the words of Skepta, that’s not me (Lol check me out quoting Skepta like I’m down with the kids).
A vast amount of my Sunday’s are spent in my comfiest pj’s and dressing gown hung the fuck over. Yes that’s me in the top photo passed out on my landing hanging out my ass. While the inspirational, organised, grown up pole bloggers out there are writing about how to maximise your weekend training sessions, I’ll be whipping up my ultimate hangover cure breakfast of waffles, hash browns, poached eggs, mushrooms, Quorn Sausages, coffee and orange Lucozade (who are these weirdos that prefer the original Lucozade? Those fuckers are not to be trusted) topped off with strawberries (ultimate hangover cure). After said breakfast of champions has been consumed, I will then watch approximately three hours of Only Fools and Horses re-runs whilst contemplating how rancid I feel on a scale of one to duvet fort.
If I’m having a particularly violent alcohol exorcism, I will resign myself to the sofa for the foreseeable future. However if I have a mild hangover, one which is perfectly functional, then I will whip up enough oomph to get myself down to the studio for Sunday pole practice. Then the whole fun of hangover poling really begins, and I realise that maybe I wasn’t as fully functioning as I thought.
First off, hangover poling involves a fuck load of hot flushes and sweating, more so than usual. Even at the start of the session, when I’m warming up my fucking wrists I can feel a sweat coming on as if I have just done ten shoulder mounts. The remnants of last nights double JD and coke seeping out of my skin with grim determination. It’s usually around this point I realise I’m not feeling quite as powerful and jazzy fresh as I initially thought.
Nope! This can fuck right off! I have abandoned my boy and my babies (doggo babies obvs) and I will bloody well smash this practice session! Right, time to practice some strength tricks!
WHAT IN THE NAME OF SATAN’S FETID FORESKIN IS THIS?! Pain threshold where the fuck have you gone!? My once toughened, buffalo hide skin is now wincing every time I try and use it for grip, my strength appears to have buggered off back home for another double bill of Del Boy and Rodney’s adventures and I can’t do a basic invert without feeling dizzy. Fuck this noise.
Never mind. Let’s get the stripper heels on and practice some good old fashioned floorwork. Ah shite, I’ve left my knee pads at home because I can just about remember my own name today let alone my dancing equipment. Oh well floorwork is always fun right?
After a good half an hour of getting my legs in all manner of gangling, grotesque positions, tying myself in the weirdest of knots and just generally making an absolute tit of myself, I surrender to my hangover, pack up my bags and realise it’s time for me to retreat from this battle to the comforting arms of my sofa.
Ugh. I’m getting far too old for this shit.