How To Do Beyonce’s ‘Single Ladies’ Dance [Video]



Seventy million fans have watched the YouTube clip of the undoubted dance of the year. But how hard is Single Ladies?

Beyoncé’s Single Ladies is one of the greatest videos of all time. There are endless stats and facts that I could utilise to support this claim — not least its 78 million hits on YouTube — but this is probably the most telling: on the day of his inauguration as President of the United States of America, Barack Obama can be seen onstage, meeting Beyoncé, and then breaking into the “shoulda put a ring on it” flicky hand-gestures, by way of greeting.

Video link after the jump.

To put this into perspective, it’s like Margaret Thatcher walking into Downing Street for the first time and breaking into the routine from the Village People’s YMCA.

So when the Weekend editor rang and said: “Have you ever wanted dance lessons, Caitlin? Do you want to learn to waltz?” I just laughed in a scornful manner, and said: “What a gigantic waste of time that would be! Tsk! I want to be Beyoncé.”

Readers, it was one of the biggest mistakes of my life. Twenty minutes into the first dance lesson of my life with Jono — resident choreographer at the Ministry of Fun — and I feel like I did halfway through my first driving lesson; just before I took the wing-mirror off in a “hazy” moment viz the accelerator and the brakes.

“You don’t know the difference between left and right?” Jono repeats, incredulously, as I clutch my thigh, hyperventilating. We struggle on for another ten minutes of me repeatedly kicking my own calves, until I self-pityingly blurt, “I bet I am the worst dancer you’ve ever seen — like, not even as good as dead people.”

“Oh darling!” Jono says, in amazement. “You do know this is one of the most complicated dances, like, ever, don’t you? There are professional dancers who can’t do this.”

Amazing. Well done me. I’ve essentially taken up jogging by entering myself in the Grand National.

Having moved out of the “denial” phase and into “acceptance”, in terms of how dreadful I am, Jono comes up with a section of the routine that he refers to as “the relatively easy bit”. “Although it does involve you dropping down into the half-splits, then bouncing back up again,” he says; as if my life regularly involves splitting my pelvis in half, and then chucking the right-hand side across the dancefloor.

Still, by the end of our two-hour lesson, I have pretty much mastered “the easy bit”. As the section involves the iconic “air-boxing” bit and the “shoulda put a ring on it” finger-pointing, I feel I have gained some skills that will aid me for a lifetime: as useful as being able to detect “North” using only the stars. On the Tube on the way home, I do that Full Monty thing — unselfconsciously running through my moves as I strap-hang among the commuters.

The next morning I am so stiff that I have to get my six-year-old daughter to help me to get out of bed. Walking to the wardrobe involves a series of strangulated pain-screams. By the time of my “Beyoncé make-over” photoshoot, I arrive with a gait most reminiscent of Danny DeVito as the Penguin in Batman Returns. “It’s not going to be so much Single Ladies, as Mingy Ladies,” I warn everyone.

For the next hour, four people — two hairdressers from Charles Worthington, make-up by Lancôme and a stylist — fall upon me like the SAS taking a beachhead. At one point, about 15 kilos of extensions are glued to my head. When finished, I totter to the mirror, and see myself in my full Beyoncé glory. Sweet baby Jesus, but I’m a transvestite. My hair appears to have been fashioned into “a Jedward”. The boots scream “prostitute”, and my poor, pale thighs look incredibly unhappy about being chivvied out into the world. There are no two ways about it: I look like a tranny truck-driver called Ralph, doing something “funny for money” for Comic Relief.

During the subsequent filming of “the easy bit” for the website, I reflect that the last time I was so eager to get something over and done with, I ended up with a baby. I can’t walk in the heels, let alone make my booty touch the floor in them — unless I simply release my booty from its Spanx, and let it fall there.

At that moment, I realise a great and profound truth: a woman should never take part in an endeavour that involves flesh-coloured tights, or the splits. Beyoncé has had 28 years to become very good at being Beyoncé. I’ve had two hours, and a wig.

When I take all the gear off, my love for my duffel-coat is second only to my newly ratcheted admiration for Beyoncé. She did that video in one take, in stilettos, and without the back of her leotard getting wedged up her bum-crack even once. I’ve done 40 seconds, and I wanted to die. It’s amazing that it’s taken me 34 years, but now, I finally accept it: I will never be Beyoncé.

Still, all that said, the next weekend I attended a wedding. When Single Ladies came on, about 11pm, I leapt over a sofa to get to the dancefloor. I did all the moves. And when I got stuck in the half-splits, one of the bridesmaids kindly hid me behind her dress while I crawled over to the bar.

Watch the video at timesonline.co.uk