Now *there* is a shock boot.
So, are you ready for an actual shock boot after the last few weeks of synthetic outrage? Are you ready for the Year Of The Man to turn even more into the sort of slaughter of sort-of-alright-good-looking-men that an Ali Bastian/Rachel Stevens/Zoe Lucker fan could only dream of than it already has been? Are you ready for MARK WRIGHT TO BREAK INTO 1000 PIECES? Then I’ve got the Results Show for you.
Oddly enough, for no reason, the whole evening is cowboy themed with Claudia as the black hat, Boy George is the white hat, and Tess Daly as the beige hat. Boy George is here to sing “Karma Chameleon” and does so really really badly, possibly as a dirty protest against the show not allowing him to do his new single instead. And who can blame them? Who wants to hear new material on a Strictly Results Show? Remember when Bryan Ferry turned up and dared to deny us the sight of Natalie Lowe gurning away to Virginia Plain? Unforgivable. Oh there’s also a pro-routine ho-down to Cotton Eyed Joe and Timber because…I dunno anymore. Apparently there’s Bollywood coming up in a future week as well.
Len’s Glans (Pixie’s isolations, Thom’s arms, a guy falling over, Bruno rolling his eyes) is truncated this week so that Claudia can bother Barbara Windsor and Jamie Murray in the audience. I spend the whole time staring at what is currently sat atop Babs’ head. I guarantee nobody sat behind her for about three rows back saw any of the show. This is a proper King Louis XIV wig we’re talking here. I think there’s a little miniature ship in there.
ANYWAY, that Shock Boot then. Simon is in the Bottom Two again because duh, and this time joining him isn’t a 50 year old sitcom actress that literally nobody has heard of, but instead Thom Evans. The judges snarl, the judges spit, the judges curse the public’s very name, but in the end Bruno and Len override Craig and Darcey and save Simon. Iveta then gives a speech about how Thom has filled her heart with butter.
Never change Iveta. Never.
It’s amazing though. Of the series hunks, one is gone, one has been in the dance-off twice, and the other has had his brain so scrambled than when Claudia tries to interview him nothing comes out but gulps and whines. This isn’t the Strictly I KNOW where being a good looking man is an automatic guarantee of sailing through to Bonfire Night at the very least. It’s kind of…exciting?
So first of all : #justiceforjudy.
It was an odd night on Strictly, with sambas duelling it out for the top spots and Charlestons circling around the bottom. Let’s deal with the most compelling dance duel of the night though – Sunetra vs Simon in a battle of the insanely melodramatic Viennese Waltzes. Sunetra dressed up as Cilla Black and whirled around a midnight street to “Anyone Who Had A Heart” whilst Simon went for broke and brought out Queen. QUEEN. Sunetra probably came out of the tussle better, with Simon pushing it a bit too far into skippy. ALSO Sunetra won on a deeper level than that because Brenda called her MY GIRL for the first time. What a feeling.
At the top of the leaderboard it definitely felt like Caroline had the breakthrough in her (also quite melodramatic) paso doble that they were hoping she had in her quickstep, although Pasha’s VT acting remains stubbornly breakthrough resistant. Frankie meanwhile did a nice-enough foxtrot, but it was overshadowed slightly by her going nuclear on the BABY WARS in her VT with I think maybe the cutest kid ever on this show? If you disagree, name a cuter one. Jake on the other hand probably had the least to work with, as he took Janette boxing and danced a quickstep to ST JILL OF HALFPENNY’S HOLIES OF HOLY JIVE SONGS, THE BLASPHEMER. Still, all should be safe to roll on to that inevitable seeming final 5.
In the mid-table, Alison seemed finally to be falling off the pace for good, as she couldn’t really get into hold in the tango for more than a few seconds at a time and she underhit the drama of the dance slightly. Oh and she brought in the ghost of Lisa Riley, with the soundtrack trailing “BIG GIRLS YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL!” after her which…I’m not sure any of us are here for. Steve Backshall meanwhile busted out the PIVITS in an Ola Jordan waltz and Thom settled right into the “good ballroom, bad latin” rut we thought briefly he might subvert early on as he did a slightly lame cha-cha to (*deep breath*) Jessie J. Somehow though he did film a VT with his brother in which they both kept their clothes on though so…that’s something.
But back to those duels though – at the top of the table Pixie and Mark threw down as to who can do the campest samba. The spirit of Darren Bennett filled the studio, everything went pink and Carmen Miranda and both of them shook their tatas with VIGOUR. Pixie came out on top because D’UH but Mark put up a better fight than I ever thought he could (not sure he deserves the Darcey 9 he gets for it but…) (also Trent sang OMG it’s just one line but I’m so in love with it).
The REAL story though is Judy carrying on her journey of last week and actually pulling off a decent Charleston (you know…for her) and getting scored lower than Scott, who does (I’M SORRY) (NOT SORRY) the worst Charleston they’ve ever had on this show (YES I JUST IMPLIED THAT SOMEONE DID SOMETHING WORSE THAN WIDDY DID IT) in which he almost kills Joanne at least twice.
Like I said #justiceforjudy
So obviously with things being as they are in the current world of tv watching and recapping I’ve not really got time to dedicate to full coverage of the charity spin-off of a minor reality sewing show. No time for Dave Myers being almost as bad at sewing as he is at dancing, except with fewer laboured food metaphors. No time for Gaby Roslin rampaging around yelling that she’s NEVER SEWED BEFORE and yet somehow turning out nigh-on perfect garment CHINNY RECKON. No time to discuss what Helen Lederer’s done to her hair or Louis Spence going on a righteous rampage over being put in the same heat as a PROFESSIONAL SEWER and tearing the legs off a child’s onesie, or to talk about all the deeply tragic ways I would bear Mark Watson’s children if I were in possession of a working uterus. No space even to talk about Edith Bowman’s perpetual runner-up melancholy, that somehow managed to equal Korto Momolu’s three series worth of almost making it, condensed into but one episode or how Gemma Cairney should have just given up and made everything into a head-scarf or even pondering who Dr Dawn Harper or Kathryn Flett are.
NOT EVEN PATRICK’S MOUSTACHE.
But what I do have time for, what I will always have time for, is to give a reality without a winner…erm…a winner. Imagine a final between the three heat winners, presided over by Heather, probably with a riding crop. Who won?
Waste not, Wonnacott.