My day as an Essex Eagles cheerleader
This is the limit, the absolute limit. When I signed up to the journalistic fraternity I imagined breaking hot news stories and serving up exclusive scoops. I hadn’t envisaged myself standing in a field in Essex, leading a troop of cheerleaders in a mangy old deerstalker.
Still, Humiliation Kemp, as this column should henceforth be known, continues apace, and it’s with my usual, unwavering dedication to you, the SPIN reader, that, on receipt of my latest challenge – to provide the interval entertainment during an Essex v Middlesex totesport League game – I leave behind my last scrap of dignity, don the ‘stalker once more and make for Southend.
What greets me there almost has me hurrying back to the station straight away.
A gaggle of Romford’s finest – the cheerleading troop Pulse – welcome me with a combination of tiny skirts and unmistakable Essex vowels and I’m soon being lead to a tiny Portakabin, next to the pavilion, that will serve as our changing room, and being handed a carrier bag containing an Essex shirt, red miniskirt and pom-poms. They tell me the girl I’m replacing – Carly – broke her nose when she was hit in the face during practice. Before I have time to consider the full implications of this, I’m instructed, in no uncertain terms, to
“get ‘em on!” My stammering protestations get me nowhere.
Instructions are barked at me from outside and it seems I’m really left with no choice but to put on the ludicrous costume.
At least the shirt is extra large, but I’m very worried about the skirt. I’m really not sure the world is ready for my legs. “This is no good” I tell the crowd gathering outside, eager to see this ridiculous spectacle, “what if the wind gets up? There could be a very unfortunate moment. Think of the spectators. Someone could have a stroke!” Cue fits of laughter outside. Then there’s an audible rip as I hoist the modest skirt over my not-so-modest backside.
“I think I’ve split it,” I say as I waddle out to round guffaws. “Does it look too bad?” I ask as I give them a spin. “Oh my gawd!” shrieks one of the girls, and I realise it certainly doesn’t look too good and quickly return to the dressing room.
I’m sitting there, a condemned man in drag, desperately looking for a window to climb out of, when the door is flung open. “Okay,” says one of the Essex marketing men, rather too brightly for my liking. “While we sort out your costume I’ve got something else for you to do,” and hands me a giant eagle’s head.
“Our mascot man isn’t here yet, so you can go round an entertain the crowd as Eddie the Eagle.”
Well, why not? It’s not as if I have any self respect left. I’m soon pulling on the giant shoes and making my way out into the stands.
“Hello Sonny” I say to the first child that comes up to me, and offer my claw for a handshake. “Sod off,” says the lad. I look to Marcus, the usual Eddie the Eagle, who has now arrived and offered to walk round with me in case anything goes wrong. (“Turn your back on them for a second and you could be rugby tackled to the ground”), to see what advice he’d give me on dealing with something like this, but he tells me I’ve broken the golden rule. “Never speak. No-one must know there’s a real person inside!” The look of incredulity I give him is sadly hidden by the huge smiling great bird mask I have on.
However, I continue on my way round the ground and soon I’m rather enjoying it. Everyone seems happy to see me – a new experience for this column – and the crowd all call out “Eddie! Eddie!” as I pass. I give them a few waves and salutes and pat a few bald men on the head. I even give them a little dance. Eyeing the ‘stalker, gangs of blokes start singing, ‘We’re walking in a Sherlock wonderland’ at me. The former mayor of Southend totters over and insists on planting a smacker on my bill. People even ask for autographs (“Don’t sign your own name, you fool,” I’m told, as it all starts to go to my head).
Some people do come up and complain that I let them down by losing the mascot derby at the recent Twenty20 final, but, as I’m not allowed to speak, my pointing at Marcus is seen as mere flapping and everyone continues to come up for a hug.
After one lap of the ground, I’m exhausted. It’s terrifically hot inside the costume and I’m happy to give it back to its rightful owner. Unfortunately, though, I find my cheerleading costume has been repaired.
A few hopeless practice routines with the girls round the back of the pavilion is scant preparation and all too soon the teams are making their way off for half-time, as the tea interval is styled these days.
“This is it,” Fay, the troop leader tells me. “Don’t worry about looking any good. Just follow us. It’ll look like the Generation Game.” As I make my way out onto the field in my ra-ra skirt, I think not even Brucie gave as much in the name of entertainment as me. I hope they appreciate it.
We bound on to the field to some thumping hi-NRG music and the chap on the Tannoy bellows out our arrival. The 4000 faces around the ground are just a blur to me, and I have a feeling of terrified nausea rising from my stomach. But the crowd seem strangely quiet. Are they in shock? “Let’s have a big hand for Alex Kemp from Spin magazine with his latest challenge, to dance with our girls!” Silence. “Oh…” says the Tannoy “…er look, there’s Eddie!” Huge cheers.
Soon we’re into the routine. I follow all the turns and razzle my pom-poms each time half a second after the girls but manage not to trip anyone up and the skirt keeps, just about, in place. And then, after three of the longest minutes of my life, we’re off. No-one seems to bat an eyelid as I sashay my way back up the pavilion steps. No one cares about the skirt, the short, fat hairy legs, and the absolute lack of rhythm or style ruining the girl’s very impressive and sexy routine.
“They’re very quiet here,” says Fay afterwards. “Not like Chelmsford. They shout all sorts there!” She sounds disappointed. “It must have been you, putting ‘em off.”
And, as I say farewell to the Pulse girls, and make my way, unbothered, out of the ground, I get the feeling she might just be right.
