Rolling like Thunder

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 27/05/2017 (3084 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

You know that song from Sesame Street, the one that goes: “One of these things is not like the others / One of these things just doesn’t belong”?

That song was running through my head on a continuous loop Thursday afternoon when I stepped on the stage at Club Regent Event Centre to be put through my paces by the world-renowned Thunder From Down Under.

For those of you who are not up on matters of high culture, Thunder From Down Under is a touring all-male exotic dance revue featuring a bunch of young Australian guys who appear to have been chiselled from solid blocks of granite.

It’s not exaggerating to say the six members of this troupe performing in Winnipeg — their first show is tonight and there’s a second show Saturday at Club Regent — have six-packs so hard and sharp you could use them for grating cheese.

In contrast, there I was — the one thing that was not like the others — a middle-aged, overweight newspaper columnist who appears to have been accidentally sculpted from 300 pounds of melting lard.

Despite our differences — or more likely because of them — the organizers behind Thunder’s two Winnipeg shows thought it would be the height of hilarity to have someone with my oversized physical gifts “try out” for a spot with these pulchritudinous Aussie performers.

Out of an abundance of caution, I took the routine safety precautions of not eating any cheeseburgers for half an hour before arriving at Club Regent, along with wearing the high-tension underpants I bought for a charity basketball game several years ago.

What you need to know is these well-muscled performers are hilarious and humble, although I was afraid they were going to wet themselves with laughter when I first walked on stage barely squeezed into my official stretchy Thunder From Down Under T-shirt.

Onstage, after I sucked my journalistic gut in, the first thing that happened was dancer Malik Wills-Martin, 25, taught me to execute one of the troupe’s signature moves — a body roll.

“You mean a belly roll?” I asked.

“For you, that sounds about right, mate,” Malik said in his thick Aussie accent, while I took my place in the middle of the group. “It’s a continuous snake motion with your body, but not sideways. Put your hands close to your head, push your chest out, and then, um …”

Which is when I helpfully chimed in: “Undulate?”

“Yeah,” Malik agreed, “undulate. And always finish with your crotch.”

I attempted this manoeuvre multiple times, and the guys showered me with praise, but I have to say this is arguably the most difficult activity I have ever attempted while standing on two feet.

The guys also showed me how to spin and make “smoking hot sexy faces” at the crowd, but the highlight came when Ben Quinlan, the youngest member of the revue at 23, taught me how to perform the ultimate crowd-pleaser — the T-shirt rip.

As you have no doubt already deduced, this is a showstopper move wherein you are expected to go all Hulk Hogan on your flimsy muscle shirt, using both hands to rip it in two while it is still on your sweating — and hopefully gyrating — torso.

“Put one arm up like you’re reaching for an apple,” Ben told me. And so I did.

“Then take your other hand and cross over your first hand like your reaching for a second apple,” Ben advised. And so I did.

“Now bring both your hands to your hips like you’re pounding them with your fists,” he continued. “Then do the body roll you just learned and, finally, reach straight up to the neck of your shirt with both hands and rip it in two!”

As he said this — BLAMMO! — Ben casually tore his flimsy shirt into equal halves, whereas I spent roughly five minutes using both sweaty hands — and a liberal dose of profane language — to stretch my shirt across my belly to the point where simple physics caused it to explode in a shower of black cloth shards.

Still, I was more than a little proud of myself, and the six members of Thunder applauded as though I had just discovered the cure for a major disease and single-handedly achieved world peace.

It’s hard to imagine having more fun with your clothes on. Speaking of which, the Thunder do not end up naked at any point during their otherwise adult act. It’s not that they’re strippers; it’s more that they are extremely fit guys who remove most of their clothing on stage while their audience, which is about 90 per cent female, screams with delight.

“The guys are never naked,” explained Penny Levin, Thunder’s Winnipeg-born public relations spokesperson and travelling den mother. “The most they’re down to are G-strings. They make women’s fantasies come true — whether it’s a cowboy or a man in uniform or Tarzan of the jungle or a police SWAT officer. They have different characters. Women love that. Ask your wife.”

Levin explained the requirements for joining the troupe include being supremely fit, an ability to move with more grace than a propane barbecue, a good sense of humour, and an Australian passport.

“They’re not classically trained dancers,” she told me. “You’re going to see guys with six-pack abs who put on an excellent show. The nice thing about our guys is they aren’t full of themselves; they’re approachable, really funny and they love women.”

Dancer Benny Cleary, 28, a construction worker before joining the group 12 months ago, said the Thunder are serious about pleasing their audience, especially anyone who might be a tad shy. “We do a fully interactive show,” Benny declared. “We’re always in and out of the crowd.

“It’s very personalized. If you look like you’re having a good time — or not having a good time — we’ll come give you a hug. We try to involve the audience in everything we do. The more excited the crowd is, the more fun it is to dance. If they’re bouncing off the walls, it’s a better show.”

Before heading to my car, I bravely asked Nathan Claridge, 31, who both dances and whips the crowd into a frenzy as MC, whether my newly learned exotic moves had cut the proverbial mustard.

“You were outstanding,” Nathan chuckled as I squeezed back into my golf shirt. “You picked up our choreography very easily. Just shave your chest and you’ll be good to go.”

So, depending on what my wife says, I may do just that. While I’m thinking it over, however, I’d be grateful if someone could kindly show me the way back to Sesame Street.

 

doug.speirs@freepress.mb.ca