Twerking in the kitchen

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So there’s this new thing, you might have heard of it. Apparently the dictionary has decided to accommodate it as an actual word. And that word is twerking. Twerking first introduced itself as a hilarious concept last year at university when my housemates and I would laugh at the explosion of youtube clips dedicated to this “dance” phenomenon. But it wasn’t until I became slightly addicted to Miley’s “We Can’t Stop” and her shameless twerking (my not-so-secret love for cheesy songs… Miley I know you are still Hannah Montana deep down) that twerking started making a regular appearance on nights out.

And this weekend was no exception. In fact you might even call it a twerkend. Once alcohol was consumed 5 minutes did not seem to go by without some form of twerk going on. A group of us went up to Loughborough to visit my sister at university, partly for birthday celebrations, but mostly to crash her freshers and party hard. The first night we went straight into drinking which got us more than slightly tipsy (international drinking rules may have played a part in this) and headed to the union, apparently the biggest in the country so hopes were high. The slightly longer than 5 minute queue sobered us up unacceptably which necessitated much downing of drinks, further contributing to the drunkness and demanding our presence in the “black room” for twerking.

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The second night started off with massive predrinks in the kitchen which got gradually more and more rowdy. Once myself and Megan were allowed control of the music every song seemed to be centred on whether you could twerk to it or not; we had a brief interlude of contemporary dancing for which we had to relocate to the corridor to give us enough space to fling ourselves around but this only led to “leaning back” which brought us around to more twerking. The twerking in the kitchen became such a thing that we got to the point where we weren’t even sure if we needed to go out; who needs a club when you have a kitchen and all the twerking tunes you could ever want.

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However we did end up out at vodka revs (with a brief stop at McDonalds for some twerk-fuel), and after some lethal cocktails the weaker drunkards among us headed home leaving the twerking A-team to show the club how it’s done. We did end up clearing quite a twerk-zone on the dancefloor and got so into our twerking that the surrounding dancers quite literally stopped and stared for rather a while. A few men attempted a chirpse but we were too concentrated on the twerking and the importance of the A-team that we weren’t prepared to participate in any other type of conversation. I’ll admit there were a few times when a twerk became a falling-over situation, but hey, at least I was committed to the twerk.

The one downside of our weekend in Loughborough was how frickin’ cold it was up there. You might even say “tits in a cauldron” cold. (Harry Potter also played a big part in our weekend… we rediscovered this beauty “Do The Hippogriff – The Weird Sisters” and planned Harry Potter themed weddings in which Dobby is the ring bearer and Winky is the flower girl and we enter on broomsticks).

Due to our probable state of intoxication over the entire weekend, we were constantly asserting our belief that we were just too hilarious for words and there can never be enough twerking in a night. And even though I am now most definitely sober and still in recovery as Loughborough has destroyed me, I still 100% agree with this belief. There was never a dull moment when we were twerking and our focus on this fabulous dance concept seemed to make all our other drunken escapades all the more ridiculous. So thank you, Loughborough, for an amazingly fun weekend, but most of all for increasing my belief in the twerk.

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