Cha-Cha-Cha? Sh-Sh-Shit…

There’s a question I’ve been subconsciously pondering for years now but it’s like one of those Chinese puzzles in that, the more you contemplate it, the more difficult it becomes to answer. Who on earth watches Strictly Come Dancing? I’m genuinely baffled, not only that it’s lasted for more than the odd series, but that it commands an audience of millions. Who in God’s name are these people? I didn’t think there were that many lobotomy patients in the country.

Having a stab at the demographic (not literally, that’s just wishful thinking), I can only assume they’re either individuals too lethargic to raise a sweaty bingo-winged arm to reach for the remote to change channel, or are immobile hospital patients unable to turn the TV off despite frantic efforts to summon a nurse.

It’s dancing for God’s sake! The only possible entertainment value dancing can ever possess is watching awkward men in nightclubs, stomping around with telltale beads of sweat rolling down their brows, undergoing the ritual humiliation synonymous with trying to engage a member of the opposite sex with desperate gyrations. This would be a much more entertaining show, and one the producers of SCD should seriously think of adopting:

“John Sergeant now takes to the floor, exhibiting the classic ‘white-man’s overbite’, clutching a half pint of snakebite with one hand while using the other for counterbalance, gazing lasciviously at his prospective partner, sweat stains under the arms of his best Top Man shirt… etc.”

The judges would have to rate his chances based on cringeworthy technique, ‘gone-to-bed’ eyes and percentage of the room he manages to fill with the tangy odour of Joop!.

I reckon it’s the shallow celebrity element which is the cause of the inflated viewing figures. You could screen Celebrity Toenail Clipping or Celebrity Manure Sculpture, and the same people would watch it in their droves.

That said, Celebrity Big Brother was pretty good this year. I liked the bit where Coolio had to wear a car costume and get sprayed with foam in a miniature car wash in the garden every time Rose Royce was played. Or there was the bit where that chap who played Mini-Me had to dress up like Lionel Richie and sing a duet with Ulrika Johnsson. In fact, the only thing it was missing was a manure sculpture task. Still, maybe next year…