Big Brother's Kemal and Miss Bling Baby

I remember when a friend called me up to say there was a belly dancer on the reality show Big Brother. I had switched on the TV and tried to identify which one it might be. And there he was, complete with red stilettos and coinbelt, Kemal, a TV producers dream. From then on I watched occasionally in my smudged black make-up late at night after a gig whilst eating my midnight dinner. I couldn't figure it out with all the dubbed over bird and aeroplane sounds but it seemed as though he was at the centre of many a gossip session or argument. And yet he had an endearing quality with his bold, true to self trans-gender attire and drama queen comments (such as the one when before entering the big brother house in an Indian wedding dress: "veil don't let me down").

Then, a few weeks ago, I received a phone call from him. "Hi, it's Kemal" he intoned in his instantly recognisable nasal drawl. This seemed like such a natural call for me to take. He told me he had seen my website and I seemed to have the right level of experienceto help him launch his accessory website missblingbaby.com. "Yes." I said (I haven't quite exorcised the habit). We discussed the details, I would dance down the catwalk to my own music (preferably something fast) and dazzle the guests. "I would do it myself" he told me "but I haven't danced in over a year". He told me he used to be a professional dancer in Turkey, that its more accepted there, which seems to be the case, having noticed a number of male belly dancers moving to London. Although I'm not so sure about the acceptability off stage, I once asked an Egyptian friend what he would do if he were gay. "I would kill my self" he replied resolute, nonchalantly taking a bite of his sandwich.

When I arrived at the private West End venue, skipping past the bouncers and the bored receptionist, I follwed the red velvet stairs down to the basement. Two ladies were leaning back on armchairs having facials and Kemal was stalking around in red tracksuit bottoms tucked into black leather boots. ("It looks so good on him, it's not fair!" my friend commented.) "Are you one of the models?" he asked me, "no, I'm the belly dancer" I glowed back, flattered. "Oh Mia! He said kissing me on both cheeks. If you can just wait over then on that [zebra striped] sofa. I'll just deal with the models and then you can rehearse." Now that has to be the best host I've ever met.

Usually it goes something like this:

Me "Is this x-Hotel?"
Foreign receptionist "Yes"
Me "I'm looking for James, I'm performing at Matilda's wedding tonight, its a surprise"
Foreign receptionist. (After answering the phone and dealing with other people behind me in the queue). "There is no wedding here tonight."
Me "What?"
FR Responsibility free shrug.
Me Call contact mobile number - phone is switched off.
Me Walk off around hotel, bump into bride in white dress between function rooms.
Me Confront FS
FS "Oh. That wedding. You are the belly dancer? (disgusted look up and down). Yes, I will take you to the public toilets where you can change."

There's nothing like finding something lower than you on the food chain. And yet here was Kemal from the telly treating me with respect. I was instantly respectful back. We dutifully waited, my drummer in his suit on the leopard print armchair, me on Zebra.

Now Kemal is one of those people who relishes blustering around with a million things to do and being the only one in charge. He lined up the models, then sashayed across the floor "its step, step step, pose",he announced, ignoring the models following behind him. We watched them walk, these models in every day clothes, normal people. And then finally it was me: "you can rehearse now" he said and disappeared behind a velvet drape. Ah. Rehearsing for myself eh. This is one thing I do not need to do. Having stood backstage at many a venue, bursting out to dance on dance floors I had not even seen I am used to improvising around the space. A shimmied around a bit, my drummer played loud, listening happily to the echo of his drum, the DJ got excited, flicking between songs. And I, well stumbled around, half trying to save energy, half showing off to the bar staff who stood to the side in their black aprons, watching pensively, taking an academic interest in the dance form.

We then sat backstage for 2 hours. We watched the hair and make up ladies preen the models. We watched the models preen themselves. We watched them smile to each other fragile smiles. I bumped into one of them and she flashed me an evil look clutching her damaged hair/head. This was the final straw, I was not crew, I was a performer. I put my costume on and suddenly I could be seen.

"Wow" Kemal said, tranfixed by my Rhinestones. "Where did you get that from?","Cairo" I replied, shivering (winter is a bad season for belly dancers) he nodded covetously. The girls stalked out and stalked back in again wearing knickers vests and jewellery. The cameras flashed. The bollywood dancers bounced onto the dance floor, all spiky hair and smiles. And then there was me. 15 minutes of pure insecurity as I danced to an audience of moody girls, paparazzi and media people. On the one side were three tiers - the anti wedding cake - girls with their legs crossed, scowling and whispering. On the other side were couples in sunglasses and trendy jeans. They smiled pleasantly. I worked HARD. It is a tricky thing to put on a show in such close proximity to a fairly hostile. I looked inside for strength, I held on to my self confidence, I interpreted the music, fast, as requested. They smiled and clapped. And finally it was over. I went back into hiding. I was told everyone thought I was great.

My drummer had disappeared - an empty stool stood wher ehe should have been drumming. He called me the next day "Miss Mia, someone say something very bad to me and I leave". He refused to say what it was but I understood the atmosphere. It was a hungry crowd, ready to devour the entertainment, not partake of it. It is an obsessive hunger that surrounds the attention of the media.

Kemal was really grateful, he even called me to thank me the next day, a very rare occurrence. He was a gentleman. (Although I don't think he'd like to hear me say that). Sometimes empathy leads to such integrity.

I remember the smile and the amused shaking of the head of a photographer as Kemal followed the models off, swinging his hips. It was a smile recognising his audacity but his honesty, his childlike pleasure in playing at being a model.

When my teacher asks us to come and meditate he often says come and play. It is the playfulness that brings back the life to our eyes and the humour to our hearts.

Strictly Come Belly Dancing

The other day I was in Holborn, it was lunchtime and I had come to meet my business adviser for a fast Japanese lunch. We perched on high stools at a bar near the entrance and were bustled about by wet umbrellas, portly business men and sharp cornered handbags. The music was fast turnover jazz.

I craned my neck sideways to converse with him. I've had this idea I said, what about TV? something like Strictly Come Belly Dancing (but steering away from the amateurism of the Generation Game). "You know what they're looking for in those programmes" he said "they want arguments, tears, drama.." "I know" I replied, confident in my own integrity, "but it's the other people that do that".

Cue a bus journey, eerily also through Holborn, just a week later. I was calling back a researcher from the BBC. Strictly Come Dancing Two had psychically picked up my message and they were looking for belly dancers. Or maybe they had picked up my email. Yes I said, before the lady on the phone had even begun to speak. That's great. "So you will just be chatting, watching the show and then making comments." In costume. "Yes." I said. barely hearing.

I rallied the troupes, puffed up my Moroccan style cushions, locked away the cat and painted on my make up and my blue lycra Egyptian costume. The other two girls were excited too. "It's weird we're not dancing though" they said as we pinned each other into our costumes. Yeah well never mind.

We sat together in a row in front of the camera and watched the programme (bearing in mind I'm a one hour a month TV viewer) trying to gather who was who. "Feel free to say if you think he's fit" the researcher cued "do you like her costume?" Of course on the day we'll supply you with wine so you feel more relaxed. I didn't mention the fact that I don't drink and this was about as relaxed as I was going to get without an hour's meditation.

In the space of five minutes I had accused a women I didn't know of looking like a bird and showing too much cleavage and a man of looking like a cross between Elvis Presley and an ice skater. This one was too stiff, that one had a smile glued to her face and so it went on. The three of us gossiping together on the cushions, egged on subtlely by the woman behind the camera. She played us back a clip and I saw myself in full costume complete with furrowed brow as the Dot Cotton of belly dancers.

"You were great. We'll let you know" she told us. We were excited, the adrenaline was pumping, the challenge was over but we wanted more, to keep watching and commenting. To make funnier and more outlandish comments. I wondered to myself why i hadn't been more extravert, I should have jumped up and shown them how it was done with a shimmy for the camera. Reluctantly I handed her back her DVD and offered her a sweet baklava (Middle Eastern pastry). She liked them. We put them all in a plastic bag for her to take home.

Later on our smiles faded a little as we wiped off our make up. One girl was worried what people she knew might think if they saw her and her belly dancer's cleavage on TV slating people. "Its just not the normal thing I would say; he's fit or she's a tart". I went to bed. I stared at the wall, chased the cat, and read a chapter from Robert Fisk's history of the Middle East. Some people have died for the principals they have laid down.

We were called back. Two of us had been selected. They wanted to match us up with the two bolder girls from another group, including a former student I had trianed of lesser experience who was trying to emulate and outshine me. Another incursion into my integrity. I looked ahead starry eyed, a rabbit in the headlights of the media.

And then I said no. I stared at the phone and nearly called to change my mind. I picked up my laptop and nearly emailed. I berated myself, I berated them. I felt my 9 years hard work had been squandered, my big break handed away on a platter. And then on the third day the anxiety went away with a sigh of relief.

A friend of mine says that whenever you do something that is out of your normal habit anxiety comes, but if you can ride through the anxiety you can change your life.