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MICHAEL FLATLEY AND HIS FEET OF FLAMES

by Nelson Hoodwinkle

The unabashedly exuberant Michael Flatley must feel as if he's been on a nonstop roller coaster ride the past four years. At Hyde Park next weekend, he'll be flying through one more go-around before finally stopping to disembark – or so he says.

From the time this winsome model of perpetual motion first strutted into public consciousness at the 1994 Eurovision contest, the world has gradually turned shamrock green. Indeed, Irish culture is everywhere – and spreading like moss. Sadly enough, England is no exception. When Irishman Pierce Brosnan assumed the role of British secret agent James Bond, it was surely a portent of things to come.

If only the German Luftwaffe had taken London by storm half as well as Flatley & Co. did earlier this year during their record-breaking run at Wembley Stadium, all of us would be sprech’ing ze Deutsch and enjoying sauerkraut with our afternoon tea. Along the same bellicose lines, this Celtic infestation of Britain could be taken as sweet revenge for the Catholic defeat at the Battle of the Boyne in 1690. The Irish have long memories, indeed.

But let’s cast history and politics aside for the moment – this is supposedly a time for grand spectacle and pageantry. Feet of Flames will no doubt ignite London like the Great Fire of 1666. Rotten Row – euphemistically termed "Route of Kings" by the show’s promoters – may very well be renamed Flatley Way after this whole affair is over. Can immortalisation at Madame Tussaud’s be far behind?

In terms of star quality and sex appeal, Michael Flatley is basically a good-looking Mick Jagger with a soft upper lip. Not surprisingly, the British male ego is being sorely tested by his decision to make his home in the toney enclave of Little Venice. Word has it that over a million pounds has been spent to turn this mansion into every woman’s dream date destination. Of course, this harkens back to World War II, when dashing American GI’s marched into London and lured our women with chocolate bars and nylons. Truth be told, the Lord of the Dance makes these GI’s look like boy scouts.

So, if you’re attending Feet of Flames with your wife or girlfriend next weekend, resign yourself to being instantly forgotten for at least one night. But instead of grumbling, "We are not amused," take consolation in the realisation that you’re witnessing entertainment history. The next day – if your sweetheart hasn’t already left you for Flatley – dress up like Mick Jagger and sign up for Irish step dancing lessons. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.
 

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