Motherfunkers

It’s tough being middle-aged. The big questions of life – like how to liven up your landing – can start to get you down. Sally Kennedy was no different. “I was making the children their tea, dancing to Chaka Khan, and thought ‘I need a dance. A proper dance. And not while I’m cooking fish fingers’.” But Kennedy didn’t want a late night on some sticky dancefloor, surrounded by bright young things. “And I knew I wasn’t the only one. So I decided to set up my own club – Mother Funkers.”

She recruited her friends to help. One to make the table cloths, and another to make the drapes. “We wanted to spell out Mother Funkers in big shiny fabric letters” says Kennedy. “So we spent the whole day crawling over the floor in my living room, gluing these letters onto the drapes with spray mount. That was when we realised that we were going to have to do the school run completely stoned. Cue uncontrollable giggling.”

Kennedy found a venue – St Mary’s Church Hall in Brighton – and set about leafleting the locals, making sure to ignore the students who looked like they didn’t get out of bed until lunchtime. They weren’t her demographic. Mother Funkers was aimed at people who wanted an early start and an early finish –Kennedy reckoned that, with two young children, getting up the next morning was as important as getting down the night before.

The first Mother Funkers, in November 2004, was a sell-out – Kennedy had to recruit her partner, Andy, to control the crowds with the children’s walkie talkies. “I was really nervous” says Kennedy. “I had a nightmare that there would be one weird woman in the middle of the floor going ‘left foot, right foot’. And, I have to say, it was a bit like that to start off with. But Barry White saved the day. You're The First, The Last, My Everything filled the floor in a second.”

Kennedy sustained a swollen coccyx from too much Oops Upside Your Head. “It was a big moment for me – all these terribly middle-class women, roaring with laughter, and really not giving two hoots for anyone or anything was, for me, one of the best moments I’ve ever had. Pure uncomplicated joy. But I hadn’t done that stupid rowing thing since my Graduation Ball in some night club in The Mumbles. I could hardly get up afterwards.”

No-one split up with their boyfriend that night. And there were no tears. T he bar ran out of dry white wine – but that was the only disaster. “Actually,” says Kennedy, “we did get told off for making too much noise clearing up after the event. I had to bow and scrape to a tall priest from St Mary’s. I couldn’t bring myself to say the name Mother Funkers. It’s the only time I haven’t been able to say it. I had to refer to it as our ‘ladies dance night’.”

Now the Mother Funkers concept is about to go nationwide. But the name is still a problem. Kennedy isn’t allowed to put up posters in her children’s school – the Headmistress doesn’t think it appropriate. “And I got into a spot of bother in town when I handed a flyer to a woman with a push chair. She thought I said ‘blah blah Mother Fuckers’, and was outraged I would use such language in front of her child. But now she comes along to every event.”

Tonight, at the Old Market in Hove, is the 15th Mother Funkers. And it’s sold out. Kennedy says that she didn’t set up Mother Funkers because she wanted to start a business – she set it up because she wanted to dance. But, either way, she’s ended up an entrepreneur. And now s he is creating a franchise. She doesn’t like the word, but that’s what it is. Kennedy wants it to be the ‘funky equivalent of the WI’, and expects that, in a year, there will be 10 franchisees around the country.

The £1,000 fee buys you the wherewithal to put on your own Mother Funkers night. You get PR tips, an a to z of disco design, and access to Kennedy’s tried-and-tested playlist. It includes songs like Beyonce’s Crazy In Love and Shaking that Arse by Groove Armada. Not Born to Run by Bruce Springsteen or Brown Sugar by The Rolling Stones – they’re banned. So are Agadoo and The Macarena – the evening would end up too much like a bad wedding.

The dancing in Hove starts at 8pm prompt. An hour ago Jan was in the swimming baths with her daughter. Now she’s on the dancefloor – with an air of chlorine about her. Her outfit? Whatever wasn’t in the ironing. But she doesn’t give a damn. She’s dancing with Louise (known – in her own imagination – as Mrs B Funkadelic), and she’s having the time of her life. “One minute you’re a mum. The next minute you’re……” She thinks. “Go on”, whispers Louise. “Say it – a dance goddess.”

Their friend, Sarah, is new to Mother Funkers. She decided to give it a try after an unpleasant surprise outside her usual nightclub. “I was with my sister” she says, “and some friends, and suddenly I was aware that there was this group of gorgeous youngsters waiting to go into the club. One of them was my niece. I thought ‘Oh shit, I can’t do this. She’s 21. And how old am I? I then spent the entire night being pestered by 12-year-old boys. That’s why I’m at Mother Funkers.”

Yvonne and Julie have driven here from London – they stopped for a crab risotto and a glass of prosecco en route. “At Mother Funkers”, says Julie, “you can leave your coat on the chair.” And, says Yvonne, “you know there’s not going to be a punch up”. But, best of all, there are no slow dances at the end of the night. “All the boys on the balcony” says Julie, “waiting for Eden Kane or Billy Fury to come on, ready to pounce.” It’s clearly been a while since Julie went dancing.

But, tonight, there’s no sign of Valerie. The 80-year-old used to get dropped off, by her husband, and dance all night. “ She said it was the best dance night in town” says Kennedy. But Valerie would be struggling to find room on the Old Market dancefloor. Kennedy has asked the women to put their raffle tickets down their bras so they don’t have to leave the dance floor to rummage in their handbags. Out there it is, as they say, a disco inferno.

The inferno includes three rather meek looking men. Men are always welcome at Mother Funkers – but only if they dance. Like the man in Farnham, who didn’t stop dancing all night. But not like the men who turned up in Brighton, “just to check out the totty” says Kennedy. “A room of 200 women, who don’t want to talk to them, look at them, or dance with them? I’ve never seen men look more redundant. They left early.”

A scientist has noted a difference in the genes of people who do – and don’t – like to dance. It’s just possible that there is a dancing gene. And that, maybe, it’s more developed in women than men. Kennedy likes to tell the story about one husband who asked his wife where she was off to. When she said Mother Funkers, he asked, ‘Why are you all dressed up then? There are no men there’. Men don’t seem to understand women and their need to dance.

The last song of the night is Dancing Queen by Abba. It’s played at every Mother Funkers – well, it’s Kennedy’s special song. And best illustrates what Mother Funkers is really about. As Kennedy starts to sing (‘ You’re in the mood for a dance, and when you get the chance…’) , her eyes mist up. ‘You are the dancing queen, young and sweet, only 17’. B ut you’re not 17. You’re 47. And you’ve got a husband and two kids. That song means the world to me.”

When the lights come up – on the stroke of 11pm – there’s no blind panic about red faces, or mascara that’s run a little. “And there’s no awful moment when you get into the light and he realises that you’ve got wrinkles” says Sarah. But telephone numbers are still exchanged. One woman has found someone to make her new curtains. “Those are the phone numbers we want now” says Kennedy. “Times change, you know…….”



		Motherfunkers It’s tough being middle-aged. The big questions of life – like how to liven up your landing – can start to get you down. Sally Kennedy was no different. “I was making the children their tea, dancing to Chaka Khan, and thought ‘I need a dance. A proper dance. And not while I’m cooking fish fingers’.” But Kennedy didn’t want a late night on some sticky dancefloor, surrounded by bright young things. “And I knew I wasn’t the only one. So I decided to set up my own club – Mother Funkers.” She recruited her friends to help. One to make the table cloths, and another to make the drapes. “We wanted to spell out Mother Funkers in big shiny fabric letters” says Kennedy. “So we spent the whole day crawling over the floor in my living room, gluing these letters onto the drapes with spray mount. That was when we realised that we were going to have to do the school run completely stoned. Cue uncontrollable giggling.” Kennedy found a venue – St Mary’s Church Hall in Brighton – and set about leafleting the locals, making sure to ignore the students who looked like they didn’t get out of bed until lunchtime. They weren’t her demographic. Mother Funkers was aimed at people who wanted an early start and an early finish –Kennedy reckoned that, with two young children, getting up the next morning was as important as getting down the night before. The first Mother Funkers, in November 2004, was a sell-out – Kennedy had to recruit her partner, Andy, to control the crowds with the children’s walkie talkies. “I was really nervous” says Kennedy. “I had a nightmare that there would be one weird woman in the middle of the floor going ‘left foot, right foot’. And, I have to say, it was a bit like that to start off with. But Barry White saved the day. You're The First, The Last, My Everything filled the floor in a second.” Kennedy sustained a swollen coccyx from too much Oops Upside Your Head. “It was a big moment for me – all these terribly middle-class women, roaring with laughter, and really not giving two hoots for anyone or anything was, for me, one of the best moments I’ve ever had. Pure uncomplicated joy. But I hadn’t done that stupid rowing thing since my Graduation Ball in some night club in The Mumbles. I could hardly get up afterwards.” No-one split up with their boyfriend that night. And there were no tears. T he bar ran out of dry white wine – but that was the only disaster. “Actually,” says Kennedy, “we did get told off for making too much noise clearing up after the event. I had to bow and scrape to a tall priest from St Mary’s. I couldn’t bring myself to say the name Mother Funkers. It’s the only time I haven’t been able to say it. I had to refer to it as our ‘ladies dance night’.” Now the Mother Funkers concept is about to go nationwide. But the name is still a problem. Kennedy isn’t allowed to put up posters in her children’s school – the Headmistress doesn’t think it appropriate. “And I got into a spot of bother in town when I handed a flyer to a woman with a push chair. She thought I said ‘blah blah Mother Fuckers’, and was outraged I would use such language in front of her child. But now she comes along to every event.” Tonight, at the Old Market in Hove, is the 15th Mother Funkers. And it’s sold out. Kennedy says that she didn’t set up Mother Funkers because she wanted to start a business – she set it up because she wanted to dance. But, either way, she’s ended up an entrepreneur. And now s he is creating a franchise. She doesn’t like the word, but that’s what it is. Kennedy wants it to be the ‘funky equivalent of the WI’, and expects that, in a year, there will be 10 franchisees around the country. The £1,000 fee buys you the wherewithal to put on your own Mother Funkers night. You get PR tips, an a to z of disco design, and access to Kennedy’s tried-and-tested playlist. It includes songs like Beyonce’s Crazy In Love and Shaking that Arse by Groove Armada. Not Born to Run by Bruce Springsteen or Brown Sugar by The Rolling Stones – they’re banned. So are Agadoo and The Macarena – the evening would end up too much like a bad wedding. The dancing in Hove starts at 8pm prompt. An hour ago Jan was in the swimming baths with her daughter. Now she’s on the dancefloor – with an air of chlorine about her. Her outfit? Whatever wasn’t in the ironing. But she doesn’t give a damn. She’s dancing with Louise (known – in her own imagination – as Mrs B Funkadelic), and she’s having the time of her life. “One minute you’re a mum. The next minute you’re……” She thinks. “Go on”, whispers Louise. “Say it – a dance goddess.” Their friend, Sarah, is new to Mother Funkers. She decided to give it a try after an unpleasant surprise outside her usual nightclub. “I was with my sister” she says, “and some friends, and suddenly I was aware that there was this group of gorgeous youngsters waiting to go into the club. One of them was my niece. I thought ‘Oh shit, I can’t do this. She’s 21. And how old am I? I then spent the entire night being pestered by 12-year-old boys. That’s why I’m at Mother Funkers.” Yvonne and Julie have driven here from London – they stopped for a crab risotto and a glass of prosecco en route. “At Mother Funkers”, says Julie, “you can leave your coat on the chair.” And, says Yvonne, “you know there’s not going to be a punch up”. But, best of all, there are no slow dances at the end of the night. “All the boys on the balcony” says Julie, “waiting for Eden Kane or Billy Fury to come on, ready to pounce.” It’s clearly been a while since Julie went dancing. But, tonight, there’s no sign of Valerie. The 80-year-old used to get dropped off, by her husband, and dance all night. “ She said it was the best dance night in town” says Kennedy. But Valerie would be struggling to find room on the Old Market dancefloor. Kennedy has asked the women to put their raffle tickets down their bras so they don’t have to leave the dance floor to rummage in their handbags. Out there it is, as they say, a disco inferno. The inferno includes three rather meek looking men. Men are always welcome at Mother Funkers – but only if they dance. Like the man in Farnham, who didn’t stop dancing all night. But not like the men who turned up in Brighton, “just to check out the totty” says Kennedy. “A room of 200 women, who don’t want to talk to them, look at them, or dance with them? I’ve never seen men look more redundant. They left early.” A scientist has noted a difference in the genes of people who do – and don’t – like to dance. It’s just possible that there is a dancing gene. And that, maybe, it’s more developed in women than men. Kennedy likes to tell the story about one husband who asked his wife where she was off to. When she said Mother Funkers, he asked, ‘Why are you all dressed up then? There are no men there’. Men don’t seem to understand women and their need to dance. The last song of the night is Dancing Queen by Abba. It’s played at every Mother Funkers – well, it’s Kennedy’s special song. And best illustrates what Mother Funkers is really about. As Kennedy starts to sing (‘ You’re in the mood for a dance, and when you get the chance…’) , her eyes mist up. ‘You are the dancing queen, young and sweet, only 17’. B ut you’re not 17. You’re 47. And you’ve got a husband and two kids. That song means the world to me.” When the lights come up – on the stroke of 11pm – there’s no blind panic about red faces, or mascara that’s run a little. “And there’s no awful moment when you get into the light and he realises that you’ve got wrinkles” says Sarah. But telephone numbers are still exchanged. One woman has found someone to make her new curtains. “Those are the phone numbers we want now” says Kennedy. “Times change, you know…….”

		© Richard Johnson 2000 - 2009