Eat Your Heart Out Leonardo - Denis Waudby

Each year Bosom Friends and Bradford Cancer Support organise a Fashion Show to raise funds. Below is a photo from last years event and an inspirational and amusing account of the show from one of our 'models'

They caught me at a weak moment after a bad day on the golf course. "Would you like to appear in a Fashion Show?" The words were expressed with that steely-eyed resolve which husbands come to recognise such as brook no disagreement.
For someone who's only previous solo excursion into sartorial selection had resulted in that unfortunate shirt purchased from the nice young man at 'Suits you Sir', a shirt which one week later finished up adorning the bargain rail at the local 'Aged Concern' shop. The thought of participating in a Fashion Show would not have appeared in my top ten. However with my Wife's encouragement and Norma's silver tongue I was 'persuaded'. In truth the possibility of sharing the catwalk with numerous Claudia Shki...Claudia Shifr...Kate Moss's had its attractions.
So we gathered together one Sunday lunchtime to meet our fellow 'volunteers', a select band of eight thoughtful but determined Yorkshire men surrounded by numerous ladies. Like all men the first thought is to compare how one measures up to the competition. Athletic six packs, broad shoulders, healthy tan, fortunately none of these present, so nothing to beat. Three Weetabix a day Yorkshire Men have a natural healthy physique born of hard work and exposure to northern climes so we felt comfortable in our prospect as Male Models. Only later did we discover that dexterous dyslexia, not knowing your 'felt' from your 'girth' (left from right) coupled with 'senior moments' would lead to impressive choreographic interpretations.

We started on the simple sequences first. In twos, pause, return, back to front, in single file and return. No big deal. Well not unless you fail to coordinate the 'felt and girth' group with flashes of individual 'senior moments'. Utter chaos, fortunately this was only day one. It could only get better. Couldn't it? Some team building and motivation was called for so we retired for coffee and a cigarette break. In discussion with my fellow volunteers we found we shared many experiences. Our wives and loved ones had suffered the trauma of breast cancer and were currently undertaking restorative treatment. The support and activities of the Bosom Friends were a welcome opportunity to confirm that they, and you, were not alone. The Fashion show would provide a wonderful occasion for the ladies to parade their growing confidence in their undiminished femininity. Those who had participated in last year's show regaled us with stories of audience adulation. The roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd. We were hooked. So with renewed commitment it was back to the catwalk, actually a downstairs corridor, but as second billing that's all they would give us.

After many weeks and much heartache for our Choreographer Rene, we eventually mastered the art of placing one foot, the 'felt' in front of the other, and the 'girth' or as we now experienced models call them, left and right. Over the next few weeks, sequences were developed and expanded so that at last excluding a few minor senior moments we could produce something akin to Rene's expectations or close facsimile thereto.

Now to the best bit, at least for the ladies. If the only suit in your wardrobe was your demob suit and you didn't want to replace it, in case they made you replace it, in case they made you fight to get another, the thought of having to select your own outfit from the total stock of a major department store will fill you with trepidation. Not so for the ladies.

Sex. Sorry but in any modern article, sex is always a prerequisite. For those of a sensitive disposition you can skip the next few paragraphs. There is nothing so much as to emphasise the difference in the sexes than shopping. When the doors opened and the ladies were given free rein, off they shot to the bowels of the store like 'Road Runner' on speed. The men stood transfixed doing passable imitations of corporal Jones "What do we do now?" The ladies returned with armfuls of clothes in various hues and daring fashions. The men returned with one tee shirt and one pair of trousers. Shirt and trousers from separate fashion groups and colours from opposing ends of the spectrum. Our ladies being supportive as ever offered the following constructive and helpful advice. "You are not wearing that!" Strangely enough, eventually after our third or fourth visit we began to enjoy ourselves with a full range of outfits to select and try on, from elegant formal wear to exaggerated fancy dress; we could give full vent to our feminine side. It's O.K. fellows, don't get carried away.
We were now ready to face our audience. Eat your heart out Leonardo de Caprio; the real men are on the catwalk.

And so to the venue, a smart modern nightclub, Pennington's, mesmerised by the list of previous performers, here we are in our true vocation to face our audience, to accept the adulation at what could be the beginning of a sparkling new career. Well, not quite. We had taken the precaution of selling our tickets to that selected group of family and friends whose heartfelt support could be ensured at minimum expense. The ladies selected the star dressing room complete with three-piece suite and separate shower and toilet. Once again we got the corridor. Why? Are we not men of standing in the community? We have our pride; after all, one of us was a past Chairman of the Methodist Bowling League. A spokesman was sent to make our conkers known to those in authority....he returned with good news and bad news. The good news, we had been allocated an additional clothes rack, the bad news, we were sharing our dressing room with Bradford Bulls front row. Now I know you ladies would go misty eyed at such a prospect, but believe me, ten men changing in the confines of a narrow corridor is not a pretty sight. More reminiscent of a football changing room rather than a bacchanalian gathering. There you've gone misty eyed again. So, suitably showered and gelled, groomed to perfection but our adoring spouses and wearing three pairs of underpants, well you can't be too careful; we were ready to face our audience. The final rehearsals were a shambles. Full vent given to 'felt and girth' senior moments galore, professional differences abound, major changes to establish routines. "Mum, I want to go home", but it's too late. The paying guests have arrived. Christa and Harry are on stage. The adrenaline flowing, which seems to have a marked effect upon ones bladder. We're off. My public needs me. It sounds as though we are a success, unfortunately we can't see the end result, we're too busy doing the fast changes, we'll have to wait for the video.

What a transformation, Rene's ugly ducklings were now swans. The audience was screaming and applauding, we were totally enraptured. This was what 'it' was all about, our ladies parading their now assured femininity, the flowing dresses, the smart suits and the ultimate formal sequence. The ladies each and everyone demonstrating that there is life after cancer. The future may be undetermined but life is to be enjoyed to the full. There are tears in my eyes, must be the three pairs of underpants. Yorkshire men don't cry. Do they? I've enjoyed myself. It was a magnificent memorable occasion. I was so overcome I volunteered for next year! What will they say at the golf club?

For more details on Bosom Friends, please contact the centre on 01274 776688 or you can use the e-mail link below