A few weeks ago, Strictly came back, with a lovely bunch of has-been celebs ready to don the sequins and sexually assault professional dancers on live television. You might’ve forgotten this, because they all had to sod off for six weeks and attempt to learn how to dance. Which really, is missing a trick. They should all be made to just dance immediately, whilst Bruce Forsyth stands wielding a taser and screaming “DANCE! DANCE!” at them.
THAT would be good telly.
But alas, Bruce’s main contribution to the show remains a sequence of utterly dreadful jokes. We know he’s a national treasure and all, but really, the whole thing would be a lot better if he’d just shut up and let us get on with laughing at Nancy Del’Olio. And oh, how we did laugh. For Nancy has been partnered with Anton du Beke, who quite clearly wants her dead.
Their routine began with Nancy faffing about on a chaise longue and refusing to partake in any dancing, whilst Anton gave her a “playful shove”. We say playful. Really, it was the shove someone gives their worst enemy whilst they’re standing above a vat of acid. Filled with spikes. On the edge of the grand canyon. He even managed to talk her feather boa into joining his evil plot to kill her by wrapping itself around her feet, but alas, Nancy remained upright.
We look forward to next week’s murder attempt.
And Anton killing Nancy might not be the only death. Because nobody else seems to have noticed, but it’s been brought to hecklerspray’s attention that professional dancer Robin Windsor – who’s partnered with the surprisingly good Anita Dobson, who has a history of being paired with evil bastards – is in fact Artem Chignywhatshisface’s evil twin. He’s clearly going to kill him and take his place, out of a mad jealousy that we can only hope has nothing to do with Holly Valance. Because she looked like a giant, sexless sequin, although the judges thought she was really good. Her dress must’ve blinded them. It’s the only possibility.
Elsewhere, the show was depressingly murder-free. In fact, it was so tame that nobody was even sent home; instead, they were greeted with the horrifying and panic-inducing news that their scores would be carried over to next week. Although they did have the challenge of listening to Alesha Dixon talk without dying of hatred, so at least there was some danger there.
And there was danger for Chelsee Healey too, who had the challenge of dancing without being dragged to the ground by her ridiculously giant tits. She succeeded, although the judges told her that her waltz was a bit mental. We’d stopped watching once it became clear she did have some balance.
The rest of them were pretty non-descript. Even Edwina Currie, which is probably for the best because she’s already disturbed enough people for one lifetime.
Alex Jones was still unbelievably Welsh, Harry Judd was still the member of McFly with the biggest arms, Lulu had no idea what show she was on and Robbie Savage wore an embarrassing sleeveless top with “Bad Boy” written on the back.
Dan Lobb, meanwhile, had clearly been told by somebody on the Daybreak set that he’s really funny. Which he’s not. But that didn’t matter, because nobody watches Daybreak, so nobody would ever have known. Now he’s ruined it by being pathetically humourless on prime-time TV. The fool. It all looked pretty unremarkable.
And then Jason Donovan happened.
It turns out that Jason Donovan is in fact the world’s most unlikely dancing god. He’d just been too busy spending his time shagging Kylie/being in Joseph/suffering some kind of breakdown and taking too many drugs to really try it out before now.
He stormed through his routine without once falling over or forgetting it – a miracle considering the amount of heroin he once packed into his veins – and got a whacking great standing ovation and the top score. They should just give him the trophy and be done with it. But they won’t. They’ll drag it out until Christmas, and we’ll all get to witness Anton du Beke snapping and killing Nancy Del’Olio on primetime TV.
It’s going to be great.
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