Strictly Come Dancing

As soon as TV programmes are referred to in abbreviated terms such as “Corrie” (Coronation Street) or “Strictly”, you KNOW they’re massively popular and utterly tedious. What’s this? First an unwarranted attack on cookery programmes and now The Pangolin has the brass neck to take a swipe at the Queen Mother of TV entertainment, Strictly Come Dancing?!?

But let’s face it, its always been deeply irritating, even years ago when wannabe amateurs strutted their stuff like metronomic chickens and sewed on all their own sequins (not at the same time, it should be noted). There’s just something vaguely ridiculous about ballroom dancing. Its even sillier than Morris Dancing. But at least Morris Dancing retains some semblance of its roots.

Not so with ballroom dancing. Oh dear me, no. Now, the whole thing’s been showbiz supercharged. Professional dancers pair celebrity amateurs who, after intensive training become professional – except of course the odd fattie or ex MP, who are thrown in for comic relief. Gone are the coy interviews of yesteryear.... 

"And here we are with Ron and Yvonne Hubbard, south–east area champions. I understand that tonight you’re going to be demonstrating the foxtrot?” 

Ron (for it is he): “Yes, that’s correct” 

“And Yvonne, I’m told that you personally sewed the 13,567 sequins on to your dress yourself?” Yvonne, “Yes, that’s correct.”

Nowadays we are treated to lengthy trailers of each pair training with respective celebrities telling us how the competition has changed their lives (and might just move them from C list to B and they won’t have to eat caterpillars in some sweaty jungle). SCD judges are suddenly catapulted to national treasure status – one nice gay bloke, one grumpy gay bloke, somebody called Len who’s seen a few sequins in his day, and, presently, a retired ballet dancer. And the boss presenter, THE national treasure Sir Bruce Forsyth (109) never misses an autocue. He’s propped up by a leggy, enthusiastic girl charged with keeping the tension top-notch. The wild card in all of this is the public. It gets to vote. Never a good idea. Sometimes the public vote for the least terpsichorially capable celebrity, an individual with all the dancing ability of Robocop. Your correspondent is unclear as to exactly how the organisers fiddle the voting so as to prevent blobbies winning. But they never do, more’s the pity.

Anyway, the nation will be relieved to know that apparently, most people love SCD, and its only horrid curmudgeons like Pangolin staffers who think its naff. And by golly we do, don’t we? 

Yes, that’s correct.

"Trevor's not a fan, then?"