Strictly and me

Way back when, a few decades ago, I was a Ballroom and Latin dancer. Spent my entire childhood and adolescence in classes, competitions and medal tests. But then university beckoned, and ballroom dance became naff and I became cool.

Years later I finally realised what the massive hole in my life labelled missing was, and went back to dance. Ballet, belly and bolly, flamenco and Fosse, street and salsa – dance became my obsession, my passion. Through dance I have met some of the very best friends in my life, and my partner; it has kept me fit, and seen me through periods of depression; provided joy, challenges and outlets for my creativity that are lacking elsewhere in my life.

All this time I had kept away from my roots, although ballroom was no longer naff, and I had certainly never really been cool. Then one May evening I spied a familiar face on the box – a judge from my early years, one Len Goodman, and a programme featuring celebs learning to dance. Curious, I tuned into a few episodes, but summer was coming, the evenings were long, and the great outdoors more alluring.

A few months later, the second series looked set to provide some interest through the winter months, but I wouldn’t have described myself a bona fide fan. Then one Saturday, I was performing at an event with a dance group. We were uncertain at first, as it was our first performance, in front of our dance peers to boot. But the audience reaction was inspiring and we finished to cheers. Then came the icing on the cake – the headline dancer, a well known teacher and performer, came up to me at the end of the evening and congratulated us on our performance. I danced on air all the way home.

Later that night I switched on the video to see what had happened on Strictly. That was the moment that I became a fan, because that was the week of that Jive – the show-stopping dance by Jill Halfpenny and Darren Bennett. On her face I saw reflected all of my emotions from earlier in the evening (only she had had to pull out all of the stops in front of a few million, whereas I had had a couple of hundred witnesses!) Nerves, self doubt, blissful enjoyment of the performance, the dawning realisation that she could actually do this, a new confidence, euphoria. And I was hooked from that moment, and so it seemed that Strictly became my story.

I spent that Christmas with my parents and grandmother, with Strictly proving that the BBC had created the magic formula to keep all generations hooked. My grandmother had been an Aled fan, and only cheered up during the final because of Bruce (“We want to see Brucie dance” was her oft-repeated mantra). I was of course rooting for Jill, my mother a secret Julian fan, and my father pretended to doze, waking up only for Denise. I was in agonies of suspense, despite that rapturous moment when all four 10s filled the screen after that Jive, but after a nail-biting final, the worthy winners were crowned.

The Christmas Special provided so much fun as well. With the tension gone, we could enjoy the fun. It was unusual for my grandmother and me to say quiet for long, but Aled and Lilia’s dance to “Walking in the air” reduced us to awed silence. It was to be the last time we watched telly together.

Series 3 rolled onto our screens, and I had my winner singled out in episode 1. Zoe the ladette seemed to turn into a lady in front of our very eyes in the arms of her Henry Higgins, with her delighted father, a much-loved TV presenter from my childhood, wiping away his tears, in the audience. But wait – a challenge from a snake hipped hurdler and his whip-cracking pro. The scene of another epic battle seemed set, but the series had a couple of surprises in store.

The final of this series would not have met favour with my grandmother. A proud Lancashire lass, she could never have stomached the sight of Yorkshire cricketer and all-round lad lifting the trophy (more so, since Darren Gough’s partner had been pipped at the post of the semi final with her lovely Aled the year before). I had switched my allegiances firmly to Colin and Erin by then, so much so that I thought the infamous muppet dance was a stroke of sheer genius and a brilliant way to showcase Colin’s skills. Look what loyalty can do to the brain. It was only years later, at the Strictly tour, that mother and daughter both had an epiphany and cried out loud “So that is what people see in Darren Gough!”)

Series 4 and by now was getting to know a nice young man. It was week 5, just after our second date, and I was rushing out to yet another dance performance. Disaster struck – the ageing video had broken. Not even hitting it seemed to work. Time only for a quick text. “Please record SCD for me”. I knew when the prompt answer “Of course” came back that a man who not only knew what SCD meant, but would agree to record it for me must be the man for me.

The next day at lunch he told me what a very exciting episode it had been, but he would give nothing away. But I am the sort of girl who likes to give her wrapped Christmas gifts a bit of a squeeze and feel in mid December, so I pestered and pestered, unable to wait until evening. Out it all came, slowly at first, hesitating, and then faster, the gripping story of the night before. The salsa. The couple faltering. The confusion. The cable. Stuck fast. Impossible to rip. The despair. The wardrobe lady. Bruce. Bruce dancing with the wardrobe lady. The appeal to the audience. The second chance. The triumph.

I couldn’t wait to get home that evening and watch my precious silver disk. And I found my winner right there and then. At the moment the shy cricketer showed how much the dance meant to him when he pleaded “Please can we do it again”.

From then on, there was no other couple in the competition for me, and I was hooked by Ramps and Karen – a suave Smooth, a faltering Rumba, a lyrical Viennese Waltz, a disastrous Foxtrot and Jive, the highs and the lows, through to that spine tingling Argentine Tango.

We escaped for Christmas to a cosy country cottage, and watched Ramps and Karen win their crowns. And so Strictly became our story and remains so today.

The much awaited Series 5 dawned. I had my winner picked in week 3. Years ago I had performed with a community dance group, and our finale had been a wonderfully anarchic Blue Brothers riff, with dancers of all ages, shapes and sizes, 6 to 60, pouring onto the stage, with the audience grooving in their seats, unable to keep still. That music has a powerful resonance for me, and when I saw Alesha Dixon shake her tail feather in the Jive, I knew who my vote was going to.

Every week, Alesha, under Matt’s perfect guidance, fell in love each new dance and with dancing itself. Yes there were things lacking in her technique, but she cast a spell on her audience, and with each episode, she seemed to embody the spirit of that dance, and convey that spirit directly to us watching at home. In the quarter final, Matt swept her around the ballroom to the strains of “Memory”, and the viewer entered into a special world, where dreams come true, and the beautiful princess would wake up and find her handsome prince right there in front of her eyes.

The week of the final Matt was interviewed and told us how precious Alesha was to him and how he never wanted to let her go. All over the country, thousands of women, tears in their eyes, were rushing to the phone to multi-vote, thinking “Why can’t I find someone to say that about me?”

Another Christmas, another country cottage, another Strictly final. The nervous wait for the result. When it was announced, I jumped out of my seat and danced around the room. Then I saw Alesha jumping up and down; then Matt; then Bruce. All four of us jumping for sheer joy.

Series 6. But what could top Series 5? Well I found my winner in episode 1. The lovely Waltz, the perfect footwork, great topline. But what clinched it for me came right at the end. The music faded, and there was a slight, last minute adjustment, pointing the foot to make the line complete. And then a smile, relief perhaps at having noticed the mistake and been in time to correct it. It was going to be Austen and Erin all the way for me!

But there was another Waltz that evening that got my vote. I had made a spiteful comment as Kristina walked down the stairs - “At least the BBC has made sure she has got the best dress, even though she has drawn the short straw with everything else”. Minutes later I was eating my words and casting my vote, in a shame-faced reminder to myself not to pre-judge a person. For John and Kristina performed a beautiful dance. It was like watching a proud father dance with his radiant daughter at her wedding and it moved me to tears.

And so I continued to vote for John and Kristina, because I enjoyed their dances more than the dances of many of their counterparts. Because dance is for everyone, not just the very young, and the super lithe. If more people are led to experience the joy of dance through watching a short, portly, middle aged chap have a go on TV, then that can only be a good thing.

But after a few weeks I stopped my votes. It wasn’t that I fell out of love with John and Kristina, it just got to a stage when there were other couples that I preferred. But the producers, the judges, the press and sections of the public wouldn’t let it go, and what started out as an inspiring story in an otherwise insipid series became a mill around the Strictly neck.

The series struggled to regain its sparkle, and shuffled from PR disaster to PR disaster. John quit at a press conference, with reports on the 10 o’clock news, and pages in all of the broadsheets; the producers stood their ground and decreed yet another two person final for the third year running, not willing to brook a compromise; the judges knocked out the bookies’ favourite (and mine!) in a controversial quarter final; the producers made a monumental blunder in the semi final by not foreseeing what countless forumites all other the country had been predicting for an entire week; the producers had to relent and head honchos were dispatched to explain why the public vote had been discounted and the judges’ votes overturned.

Another year, another final, but lacking something of its usual excitement. The judges gave us their marks, and we public gave them our collective two fingers. The favourite of the judges, scoring 80 out of 80, was knocked out first. Shock, horror. But then something happened that showed that maybe the judges weren’t quite so right, and the public weren’t quite so wrong. Lisa and Brendan’s show dance. Meatloaf. A very original interpretation. Bacofoil (well ‘twas the season for a turkey). The horror! The memories still lingering that will not go away. (A special montage version for those strong enough:- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SAZ0nOmfWwY ) Then it was the turn of Rachel and Vincent. If she had danced like that all series she would have got my vote! She came out and performed a blinder, all her passion for dance shining in her eyes. But they sure saved the best till last this series. Tom and Camilla – what a stunningly appropriate dance. What an end to the series. What a start to Christmas.