Among my life’s achievements I treasure a rare and special honour. I have the lowest ever recorded score on Strictly Come Dancing. That quartet of steely-hearted judges awarded me a lamentable eight out of a possible 40 points for a Cha Cha routine that was hypnotically and hysterically hopeless. A record, I’m quietly proud to admit, that stands unbroken to this day. I danced with the poise of a prematurely opened deck-chair and made John Sergeant look like Tinkerbell. The evil Craig gave me a single miserable point and Bruno described my routine with the World Ballroom Champion Hazel Newberry (poor woman) as like watching a ‘Reliant Robin making love to a Ferrari’. Even dear old Len found it hard to hide his frowns. I was booted off in the first round.
This was back in Series Two when Strictly was a very different show. Those early programmes had a wholesome amateurism that gave the sequins, American Tan tights and Bruce’s toe-curling jokes a context of charming irony. No high seriousness, no hand-wringing about declining dancing standards and no gossip about which A-list celebrity is slated to be signing up next. It was that rare thing, a simple reality format that required genuine determination, hard work and skill. Self-deprecating contestants took their dancing regimes seriously, but never themselves. There was a cleverly chosen mix of well-known (but not hugely famous) pundits and performers who were there because they all believed in Strictly’s first rule: it’s better to have danced and lost than never to have danced at all. The currency was fun, not fame.
But these days the programme attracts the sort of media coverage normally reserved for the invasion of a small country.
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