Strictly No Dancing Please

T

he title of this piece is slightly misleading. I actually quite enjoy cutting a rug, getting jiggy with it and busting a groove. My dancing exploits have taken me from the halls of Vodka Revolutions to my friend Tom's sitting room. I haven't mastered ballroom, and never will, but I have perfected a forward defensive cricket drive to “I don't like cricket” by 10cc.

What gets my goat is the sight of 14 'profound' individuals who earn their money from the entertainment industry, and one from railing against the perils of social liberalism, cavorting across our screens pretty much every day of the week on BBC 1 or 2 from the end of the British summer to Christmas. My stomach lurched and an overwhelming sense of impending doom coursed through my body when the BBC cranked up its 'Strictly' (as some people call it with no hint of irony whatsoever) advertising campaign. What a fantastic use of public money in a time of economic austerity, or in a time of economic boom for that matter.

Now if it was just a dance contest I could probably cope with it. Certainly Flavia Cacace's (I looked up her name on Google) cha cha cha is not altogether unappealing; a fact that can't have escaped Paul Daniels as he can't need the money from the show having sold quite a few magic sets in his lifetime. Unfortunately, 'Strictly' isn't. We have to witness these people on an emotional journey professing that it is the toughest thing that they have ever done. Sometimes it gets so tough that they say they can't go on. They usually do. There is also the nauseating celebrity self-congratulatory smugness and backslapping apparent on Comic Relief and Sports Personality of the Year to contend with.

'Strictly' is not just confined to our television screens on Saturday nights when thankfully other options are available. It's now on Friday nights, probably Sunday nights too, and weekday evenings where Claudia Winkleman permits us backstage footage! Apparently, this allows us to see what the contestants are really thinking, which is, of course, complete bunkum. It's also a hot topic in the workplace where secretaries up and down the land (well the ones in my office anyway) fawn over the abdominal muscles of the latest 'Strictly' hunk. The only way to escape 'Strictly' is to become a hermit or adopt Robert Peston's advice (in relation to the recent recession) of switching off the lights and pulling the duvet over your head. Moving abroad isn't even an option as the BBC have sold off this ratings hit to other overseas networks.

I'm not a pyschoanalyst, but I'm pretty sure that I have a fair idea as to what lies behind the contestants' participation. It's not a love for ballroom dancing that's for sure. If it was, then the participants would have simply taken up ballroom lessons in private. Undoubtedly each contestant will have their own nuanced reason for taking part. Paul Daniels wants to pinch Flavia's bottom; Felicity Kendal is scared of getting old; and Peter Shilton probably does actually need some sterling to pay his gas bill. Likes a bet does 'Shilts'. However, what unites every contestant is their unremitting thirst for publicity, hoping that their performance in 'Strictly' will act as a springboard to relaunch their flagging careers. Gavin Henson probably thinks that he will be teleported into the stratosphere of 'A-list' celebrity.

If there is a highlight on 'Strictly' (apart from Flavia) it is Bruce Forsyth's awful gags (so bad that they're good) and witnessing his battle with Father Time. I no longer have complete confidence in Brucie's ability to deliver his lines consistently from the autocue, which adds a delightful Office-esque degree of discomfort to proceedings. I don't think the BBC does either as rumours circulate about Claudia Winkleman (Davina McCall's heir apparently) stepping into his shoes. Brucie will not go quietly.

The BBC's remit is to “inform, educate and entertain”. I wish that they would focus on the first two areas a little more.