Strictly Come Dancing

Dah da-dah dah dah dah daaaah, dah da-dah dah dah.  That music can only mean one thing: summer is well and truly over and we are now counting down the weeks till Christmas.  How do we know this?  By the return of Strictly Come Dancing season, of course.  Regular readers might think this primetime piece of the BBC1 Saturday and Sunday night schedule is a bit broad for the acerbic sideswipes of Just One More Episode.  But you can’t beat a bit of wholesome teatime family entertainment.  There’s enough terrible awful out there in the world that sometimes distracting yourself with concern about the quality of a faded soapstar’s Paso Doble can be just what the doctor ordered.

I was snootily dismissive of the show when it first appeared in 2004.  It seemed like a Daily Mail-esque attempt to bring back a long-gone former era by rebooting pensioners’ favourite Come Dancing, though the update came from the slapping on of the slightly lost adjective Strictly (presumably in an attempt to bring to mind the sexy intensity of Baz Luhrmann’s Strictly Ballroom).  Either way, the name doesn’t make any grammatical sense.  You can’t tell someone to carry out an action in a strict way: strictly wash your hands, strictly put your trousers back on etc.  But this is just the first quality of many that makes the show so magical: it is fully departed from reality.

The concept is simple: a handful of celebrities learn to ballroom dance by being partnered up with world champion professionals.  Each week, they present a dance before a panel of judges, whose scores are combined with a public vote to determine weekly eliminations until an overall winner is left to lift the Glitterball Trophy.  Whereas most celeb shows have come with a sense of shame and desperation (from Celebrity Big Brother to the early days of I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here), Strictly Come Dancing has always kept an aspirational quality simply because it looks so much fun and wins the heart of every participant.

And did someone say Sir Bruce Forsyth?  Probably not, but his presenting role for the show’s first ten years became part of its essential charm – you couldn’t help but enjoy his rambling links while at the same time slightly wishing they were over.  Sadly, Brucey’s last Tango was in 2017 (RIP), but the addition of Claudia Winkleman since 2014 has multiplied the joy the show brings, proving true the revolutionary theory that two women (she and Tess Daly) can present a primetime show without any need of an older gentleman.  Winkleman’s wizardry originates in her fringe, which she peers through while frequently rendering speechless the dancers around her with her quick(step) wit.  I love her.

But let’s be honest: everyone involved in this show must be wonderful.  Its production ambition is now so huge that I can only guess at the size of the various teams: wardrobe, hair, make-up, props, not to mention the band and singers who will literally take on anything, week in, week out.  I have particular affection for the judges.  Sadly, dear Len Goodman (seven!) is no longer pickling his walnuts having retired in 2016, but Shirley Ballas has proved a replacement to be reckoned with as Head Judge.  I always enjoyed Darcey Bussell, but am thrilled to see Motsi Mabuse storming onto the scene.  An older woman of colour in a role of authority on primetime TV shouldn’t need a comment in 2019, but it feels fitting to celebrate her appointment.  Meanwhile, whatever the significance to diversity, you’ve still got Bruno Tonioli’s elastic turns of expression being delivered with such energy he regularly slips off his chair, alongside Craig Revel Horwood’s deeply unimpressed face.  As each lifts their scoring paddle at the end of a dance, you realise numbers have never been so exciting.  Or glittery.

I often sit there wondering how I can possibly get on the show.  Normally, through work contacts, I can get tickets to my favourite telly, having bothered The X Factor live shows many a time over the years.  But as a BBC production, the doors are shuttered to my advertising dollars.  My only hope (and current career plan) therefore is to get a minor part in a soap opera.  My acting is hammy enough and I am open minded about onscreen nudity in case there are any late-night specials.  I’m not fussy about the story arc: a murder, or some other terrible crime perhaps.  It just needs to be enough to get me at the top of that staircase one Saturday evening, dressed in skin-tight trews, Cuban heels and a garish shirt barely buttoned to the naval, announced by Alan Dedicoat with some sort of creative play on my occupation (failed blogger and serial boxset consumer?), with an East European professional lady clasped at my side.  I reckon I could at least make it to Blackpool.

And that’s the glorious thing: how Strictly punctuates the road to the end of the year: movie week, Halloween, the first Argentine Tango, Blackpool, the final and into the Christmas special.  And the years have been punctuated by the professional dancers’ welcome place in the lists of what we call household names (went a bit Miranda there, didn’t I?).  You can hear the housewives frothing over their beloved Kevin Clifton, while Anton du Beke (the only one to make all 17 series) has mastered the withering comment after years of being saddled with an array of no hopers.  Janette Manrara is always the one to watch in the spectacular group performances while Karen Hauer and Aljaž Skorjanec compete for the world’s biggest smile.  They are all great and it’s easy to see how deeply they care about getting through to each next week.

The final element I’ll go on about is the celebrities themselves.  At some point in the future, everyone who’s ever been well known in the UK will have taken part, leading to my parents’ favourite question to ask about anyone famous: “What were they in last?”  The quality has been mixed, from the most appalling performances that make you wonder if that person can even clap in time to a beat, let alone perform a Foxtrot.  Then, there are the average ones, and both this and the former category can be fast-forwarded if you’re watching on catch up.  Sure, every minute of the show can be enjoyed, but once you compare the top scorers, there really is no competition.  So here is a rundown of a handful of the best dances ever (that I can currently remember):

Jay McGuiness and Aliona Vilani’s Jive, 2015

It was week three (movie week) and the pair’s Pulp Fiction-themed performance began softly but took us all by surprise as it escalated and escalated to breath-taking heights of cool fleet-footedness.  The audience’s cheers made it clear that they couldn’t believe it.  Nobody was expecting this from a chap off The Wanted and it became an absolute best in class.  The nods to the film were as perfect as the execution.

Danny Mac and Oti Mabuse’s Samba, 2016

Never an easy dance for the celebrity males, Mac embraced every element of the discipline, looking as comfortable in hold with Mabuse as he did shaking his hips liberally while out of it on the floor.

Alesha Dixon and Matthew Cutler’s Cha Cha Cha, 2007

Any of Dixon’s dances could be in here, but this one really played to her strengths.  Full of attack (a Darcey-ism) yet playful in nature, this dance elevated 2007 as a watershed year in the show when the celebrities really had to be exceptionally good to triumph, not just a bit good.

Caroline Flack and Pasha Kovalev’s Charleston, 2014

She of Love Island was a worthy Strictly winner, totally nailing this comedic routine with perfect form and smiling throughout while Pasha tossed her hither and thither.

Alexandra Burke and Gorka Márquez’s Jive, 2017

Elevating things again with perfect flicks throughout, Burke jives the bejesus out of Proud Mary and the crowd goes wild.

Aston Merrygold and Janette Manrara’s Cha Cha Cha, 2017         

Merrygold’s early exit from this series was one of history’s greatest miscarriages of justice and I still don’t know how it was allowed to happen.  In this dance, he still looks cool, despite being dressed as a blue troll, and proves beyond doubt why he and Janette should have gone on to the final.  Guaranteed smiles.

There are too many to mention, but let’s just take a moment to think about Lisa Riley’s Samba at Blackpool ending in the splits.  Yes.  I’m surprised more couples don’t forget their steps, though upsets can and do occur.  Perhaps the most distressing moment for anyone taking part is the Rumba, which surely needs to be cast out after so many years of stiff-hipped sportsmen making a mockery of it.  Nevertheless, Strictly remains some of the best fun you can have on TV.  And the ratings!  While X Factor fades from its peak, its BBC rival still easily draws ten million viewers.  No sob stories, no nastiness for the sake of it: just the pursuit of an artform that is potentially one of humankind’s greatest contributions to itself.  Maybe if life contained more dancing, there would be less Brexit.  The scores are in: TEN!

I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here

In the old days, they had seasons to tell them what time of the year it was.  In this golden age of television, we have the return of certain TV shows to indicate where we are in our annual cycle.  In fact, you could rely on ITV1 not only to provide shiny-floor entertainment, but also to fulfil this function: Britain’s Got Talent lets you know it’s nearly Easter, The X Factor heralds the end of summer and, finally, I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here makes it unmistakeable that here we go again it’s only already ruddy Christmas isn’t it.  Of course, you might be part of the camp that believes it’s not the festive season until you’ve wept at the John Lewis ad (reminding you of the true meaning of Christmas: promoting Elton John) or until you’ve seen a Coca Cola truck (reminding you of the other meaning of Christmas: using carbon-heavy distribution methods to ensure fat people can access fizzy, sugar-laden drinks).

But, whether you love this time of year, or, like me, you think we should only really do December 25^th every few years, the return of I’m A Celeb is arguably more important than the alleged birth date of a man who claimed god was his dad and who still seems to yield unprecedented influence over two thousand years later.  This is because it reminds me, without fail, that the year is almost out, and all I’ve done with it is watch too much telly.  All those things I vowed I would achieve back in January… they’re still mere vows rather than actual actions.  Instead of prompting me to get a wriggle on and deliver something, I instead resign myself to rolling them over to the next year, slouching down on the sofa, and tuning in for another nightly hour of jungle fun.

But it wasn’t always this way.  When the first series broadcast in 2002, I had no interest at all.  My perspective of its genesis might be skewed, but I am totally writing it here without checking any of it.  TV had just been rocked by the arrival of proper reality TV: Big Brother.  Convinced it needed its own version to rival Channel 4’s ratings hit, ITV acquired Survivor (and BBC done Castaway but that was more to do with the Millennium, apparently).  Instead of a house, there was a jungle, but it was basically the same: some skulduggery, some exhibitionism, some normos competing for a cash prize.  The main difference was that nobody wanted to watch it, despite untold marketing hype.  Then, I assume, someone gave it a quick tweak and turned it into a celebrity version.  Thus, according to my hazy recollection and fabrication, I’m A Celeb was born.

To me, though, it remained an irrelevant format.  All these people that claimed they’d never stoop so low as to watch the desperate wannabes on Big Brother, but would later happily sit through The Apprentice, extended this double standard by watching I’m A Celeb.  Yet surely this was the most desperate form of reality TV: faded household names doing anything to get famous again, whether that be eating kangaroo penises or withstanding a shower of thousands of cockroaches and crickets.  All for our amusement.  And not just our collective enjoyment alongside them, but for our point-and-laugh-at-their-sorry-state derision, at their expense and humiliation.  Starved in a camp on basic rations, pooping in a dunny and sleeping in hammocks, participants then fight for food in Bushtucker Trials by enduring close physical contact with scary critters (think helmets filled with spiders) or down drinks that will churn any stomach (think blended beetles).  It was cruel, but it was also super broad.  As a teenager, I needed things to feel niche and subversive, only there for me to discover, rather than shared with millions of average viewers.  I could watch Buffy instead.

Even in 2007, the show brought me out in hives.  Flicking through the freeview channels in my Belsize Park five-man flatshare, in the days before I had any way to watch telly other than tuning in at the right time (a barbaric era), I came across series 7.  Jason “J” Brown (from Five) and Gemma Atkinson (from Hollyoaks) were suspended above a jungle creek in an old aeroplane.  I don’t know why.  Everything was so offputting.  They had on horrible beige shirts.  There were red fleece bodywarmers, with phone numbers on the back.  I still detected the air of delighting in the end of someone’s showbiz career.  I switched over.

Things changed, though, back in 2012.  I was staying temporarily with a friend while in between flatshares (I told her three weeks, but stayed for three months – soz).  As the homeowner, she was in charge of evening viewing.  It was also my first Sky household, and I didn’t know how to work the remote.  She wanted I’m A Celeb, I was in no position to say no, and into series twelve we dived.  Her rationale was that the links, presented by Ant and Dec, were funnier than most other things on TV.

How right she was.  I can guarantee anyone viewing this show more than their fair share of LOLs on their witty interactions alone.  They’re irreverent when talking about the contestants, teasing their foibles and emphasising their idiosyncrasies.  To my surprise, this wasn’t done aggressively.  It felt like the gentle ribbing you see among friends, rather than full character assassinations.  Either way, they were spot on.  Alongside these the lads share camaraderie with the offscreen, yet audible crew, laughing at themselves as much as they do at the celebs.  As such, they’ve even built up their own parlance – a set of known phrases that appear every year.  My highlights are below:

I’m No Doctor, Guys But…

The job role here is interchangeable, but this one was originally wheeled out for medical issues, pointing out that contestants probably shouldn’t be eating/drinking that (that often being pureed turkey testicles).

I’ll Smash Your Face In

A threat of violence from Dec to anyone that dares to slight him.  Of course, he is not a violent man, so its incongruity with everything else that’s going on plays perfectly at tickling the chuckle bones.

Evening, Prime Minister

Whenever anything political comes up, a knowing glance is given to camera, alongside a cheeky bow, lampooning any potential viewing from our premier.  I enjoy the image of DavCam or T Maz perched on the edge of the sofa, glued to the telly while international diplomatic nightmares play out around them.

But now, our beloved Ant is having time off and Holly Willoughby is on Dec’s right on our jungle set.  I mean, yeah, she’s doing ok.  I don’t want to be horrible about people here, but she’s one of the least friendly presenters I’ve ever met through work, so it’s nice that she smiles her chops off in front of the camera.  I would too, if I were that smug.  So let’s focus on the set.  What is this place!?  There are camps, and rope bridges, and treetop walkways, not to mention unlimited Bushtucker Trial locations.  I’m imagining a full out-of-town complex off some motorway in Queensland.  But how can it be sustainable to run this whole place (breeding the cockroaches, stroking the snakes, cutting off the kangaroo penises etc) when it’s just in use for one month a year to torment past and future stars of British panto.  I’m sure once ITV have cleared out they ship in the Argentine version of Ant and Dec or the Swedish version of Christopher Biggins and all hell breaks loose once again.

So, let’s finish with a round-up of my favourite participants since I started watching the show in 2012, with apologies to anyone who did a good job on it before I could be persuaded to watch.

Helen Flanagan, series 12

Some child of the cobbles of Corrie was now all grown up.  Grown up enough not to want to do any Trials.  She completely abandoned one at the first hurdle, on seeing a room containing an emu.  Ant and Dec struggled to hide their frustration, but at least they got to finish early.

Ashley Roberts, series 12

A worthy runner up, kept from the spotlight in the Pussycat Dolls, but charming British audiences with her American enthusiasm.  I once walked past her outside the Wolseley.

Rebecca Adlington, series 13

An absolute champ, building on her Olympic medal collection with a down-to-earth and practical approach to jungle life, all while revealing that even a gold-medal swimmer can suffer from insecurities.

Gemma Collins, series 14

I find everything this lady does hilarious.  Including when she literally couldn’t be arsed past day 3.

Vicky Pattison, series 15

I loved her on Geordie Shore, and I loved her winning this series and transitioning to a mainstream national treasure.

Lady Colin Campbell, series 15

A posh old white lady with a Jamaican accent?  As if that wasn’t enough, she was also the most stubborn contestant ever known and gave Duncan Bannatyne a run for his money in the dour stakes.

Joel Dommett, series 16

I hadn’t heard of him, but, the minute he appeared, I got all these texts claiming he and I are the same person.  And we basically are.

Larry Lamb, series 16

It was just nice to spend time with Gavin’s dad from Gavin & Stacey.

Amir Khan, series 17

An extreme case of manchild.  He was the first celebrity to consume his Dingo Dollar Challenge treat himself before taking it back to the camp.  Fair play to him.

Special mention to Gillian McKeith, who appeared in 2010.  I must have been shown her performance (pretending to faint to avoid Bushtucker Trials) by someone else, but it enabled me to enjoy this song in its full intended glory (because, why is Gillian so reptilian?).

No matter how terrible some of the contestants, the field is soon whittled down to a loveable bunch whom we come to see as friends.  We share their private jokes, their jungle memories, and their journeys from pampered C-listers to primeval survivalists.  This is brought to life more than ever in the last days before the final.  I’m tingling now at the thought of Celebrity Cyclone, the best of all the Bushtucker Trials.  An enormous slip’n’slide with water cannons, colourful capes and an array of projectiles that illustrates just how much our new pals have bonded.  I’m almost sad when they finally announce the winner.  Where else can a diminutive rapper (Tinchy Stryder) and a former Tory battle-axe (Edwina Currie) go camping together in a rainforest? It’s no longer about a shameless plug for attention, but about how far they’ve been prepared to come to get the nation to take them back into their hearts. So yes, it really is the most wonderful time of the year, and it doesn’t need baby Jesus or Elton John’s stupid piano.