OK, so, on the plus side, it raised money for Children In Need, which is always a good thing, and a re-establishing of a link that the show had sadly lost amidst all those phone scandals where people acted like they TRULY TRULY CARED about how Blue Peter chose the name of its pets.
OK, that’s it, apart from that, WORRALOADOFOLDSHIT.
This week, Strictly goes to Wembley, and promptly gets swallowed up by its great cavernous echoing walls and absolutely nothing of merit pokes through the murk. Dances bobble around aimlessly with no real space to define them, so they mostly devolve either into people running around aimlessly clapping at the crowd, or just standing still and looking tiny and insignificant. There’s an elevated stage-set in the middle of the floor that sucks people in like a grat big quicksand black-hole, for them to stand on and fart around and do nothing on. The Tesspit is back and every pro who’s ever been on the show is crammed into there as the show really COMMITTS to being size over style over substance. I think I can even see Hayley Holt ferreting around somewhere behind Erin. This commitment incidentally is best exemplified by the opening routine, to a Queen medley complete with Cirque du Soleil rejects and cheerleaders and someone in a Billy Connolly fright-wig and, of course, lets of clapping at the crowd. It’s sound and fury, signifying nothing.
The dances? Alex probably makes the best of it, mostly because James has made good use of the space, but partly because her nerves don’t seem to be affecting her any more, which I guess is a journey of sorts. Chelsee also stands out, if only for not standing out, because she’s on Chelsee Latin autopilot. Pasha has lots of balloons, for no reason whatsoever. This week? That’s enough.
For the rest of the top end, they’re all haunted by the ghosts of Strictly past. Holly does a quickstep to Alesha’s quickstep music, by which I mean she runs around the floor like a rapidly deflating balloon, with little rhyme or reason beyond faffing. At least Artem’s back anyway. Harry does a salsa (or, if you’re Len, a samba) to Jill Halfpenny’s jive music, and is woefully outmatched by the occasion. Whoever’s doing his chest-waxing is still making a right old hash of it as well. Oh and speaking of St Jill’s jive after being bigged up all week and promoted as the best jive since its sacred manifestation, Jason’s turns out to be…fine, in a sub-Scott, sub-Austin sort of way, until it crashes into a wall and dies.
And yet somehow the bottom is worse. Robbie does choo-choo arms whilst Ola repeatedly throws her vagina at his face, Anita tries to murder the idea of a “Bottom 2 Bounce” out of existence with a display of fumes, desperation and worst of all “Come On Eileen”. The nadir though is Russell being “fired out of a cannon” then doing a couple of star jumps and weeble-wobbling and calling it a jive. Hopefully, this is the end. As it is, Holly seems somehow a more likely prospect.
NEVER AGAIN Strictly. NEVER AGAIN.