Last night I dreamed I went to Strictly 2016. It was a strange and scarey place, banished to a commercial TV station. There were adverts every 10 minutes; the dancers would dance for around 30 seconds and then engage in a war of words with the judges; the audience bayed loudly for blood, and whoever shouted long and loudest was deemed to have won. Bruce had been carefully mothballed, to be brought out only for Christmas specials. His replacements a double act of Lisa Snowden and Pauline Quirke (I really must stop eating cheese as a late night snack).
There were no VTs of training couples; instead snippets of celebs racing round the ballroom in swimming trunks; pro dancers leaping into swimming pools (how did Hole in the Wall get in here?).
The forums were diminishing in their love for Strictly. Fans were hard to find. Len Goodman popped round to our house for a glass of wine and to rue the mess that Strictly had become.
I guess it's time to count our blessings on the Strictly front while we can!
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