Goodbye Saturday Night

Last week: I watched Strictly Come Dancing.

After over a decade of a TV-free household, a few months ago we decided to take the plunge and introduce the goggle box back into our lives. The abstention has had positive effects and I'm pleased to say that we haven't yet slipped into the bad habit of keeping it switched on at all times as background noise and we still pretentiously lounge around reading high-brow culture magazines and listening to Bill Evans. On the other hand, it seems that my propensity for watching mindless entertainment is stronger than ever and I've been caught more than once by my husband, feet up, biscuit semi-immersed in Earl Grey, glued to One Tree Hill, Dawson's Creek or one of the many throwaway made-for-TV movies that they tend to show on the Vitaya channel.

With the BBC absent from my home, one of the biggest cultural phenomena of the noughties (did I really just use that word?) has managed to pass me by. In 2004, BBC 1 launched Strictly Come Dancing - a modern reworking of classic family favourite Come Dancing - and the Saturday Nights of much of the UK female population have never been the same since. Nights out on the town have been abandoned in favour of sequins and cumerbunds and women around the country can be seen huddled together on sofas sharing a bottle of wine and holding up scorecards as they watch popular newsreaders, radio djs, tennis players and even politicians attempt to perform a flawless quickstep on live TV. For many of my girlie friends it has become an annual ritual and no matter how much I try to feign disinterest, I feel like I'm missing out.

With my SCD (did I really just use its acronym?) addicted sister-in-law visiting last week coninciding with the beginning of a new series, it was the perfect opportunity to have my first taste of the ritzy dance contest (and my first taste of one of the bottles of gin that she was armed with). Presented by cheesy comic genius Bruce Forsyth and yet another typical BBC interchangeable leggy blonde, Tess Daly, the first leg of the competition took place over two programmes aired on Friday and Saturday night when 14 alleged "celebrities" (who the hell is Dan Lobb?) were out to prove what they've got in the booty shaking department. Several weeks earlier they had been paired up with professional dancers who had been teaching them the necessary moves to prevent them from making a holy show of themselves in front of the whole nation and their ensuing early elimination. On this first edition, contestants were required to perform either a waltz or cha-cha-cha, after which, the camera panned to a panel of "expert" judges holding aloft scorecards bearing marks from 1-10 and offering up their various critiques.

Let's face facts, some contestants have a clear advantage over others whose only purpose is to be sent to the lions and face public ridicule in an effort to send TV ratings through the roof. Holly Valance has wiggled
her touche in more than one MTV-destined pop video, so it wasn't much of a suprise that she scored highly and looked smoking hot performing a rather sultry cha-cha-cha. And no more was it suprising that Edwina Currie had as much grace as a cart horse, although I wasn't expecting or hoping that she would show her pants. I would say stick to politics, Edwina, but then again...

The highly likeable Jason Donovan was the star of the show, displaying an admirable sense of competitiveness which probably explains why he's got where he is today (as it's clearly not through any singing talent). Others with an A for effort included Anita Dobson, camper than Christmas astrologist Russell Grant, and Mcfly Drummer Harry Judd. Flying the trollop flag for Greater Manchester and, despite her inflatable chest, soap actress Chelsee Healey, managed to put in a rather elegant display of the waltz. Bulky frame aside, boxing gold medallist Audley Harrison looked sleek and borderline debonair during his performance and, although I wouldn't kick him out of bed for eating biscuits, I don't particularly envy his partner who runs the risk of his size 17 feet treading on her dainty little tootsies every time they hit the dancefloor.

TV can't get much worse than the vision of Italian super slapper Nancy dell'Olio catching a stiletto in a feather boa and almost going for a ball of chalk (for those of you unfamiliar with my Northern colloquial lingo, read 'arse over tit'). But even Nancy was outshone in the two left feet stakes. Botoxed to the eyeballs 60s chanteuse, Lulu, looked like she'd hit the dancefloor after one too many WKDs, flailing her arms about and stumbling into her Strictly (did I really just use its abbreviation?) dance partner, making him wish that he'd gone through with his audition for The Chippendales. But I'm sure she made her grandchildren proud.

Would I try this again? It's already series linked.