Whatever happened to the ‘dancing’ part of the show Strictly Come Dancing that kicked off its 22nd series on Saturday? It’s the question I ask myself every year as I try to identify the steps that appear between the gymnastics.
How the audience holler and go wild with applause when someone is lifted into the air and spun around. How they cheer if a bowler hat is thrown into the air and, miracle upon miracle, caught.
Sometimes, I don’t even recognise what dance is being performed; regularly, the competitors clearly don’t, either, as they are so out of sync with the music.
Don’t get me wrong. I know Strictly is great Saturday night entertainment for all the family, and there have been sublime dancers over the years. But as increasing numbers of trained dancers and performers take part, it’s lost what was at the heart of the original concept: teaching non-dancers how to achieve a level of excellence they could never have imagined.
This year, the various scandals surrounding the show relating to the alleged treatment of contestants by some professionals has soured the mix. Can it be that behind the taffeta and sequined glamour, there is a dark underworld of horror hidden from the viewing public?
Heaven forbid, is nothing sacred in life?
I do not condone cruelty in any shape or form, but I do wonder whether some inexperienced contestants appear without the slightest idea of how tough the dancing world really is. They might need to resurrect their flagging careers, have a desire to change the public’s negative perception of them; then there are politicians, who need to do both.
But be in no doubt about it: dancing is a lot tougher than it looks, and if there is one message the BBC needs to impart to its participants, it’s that.
And it’s not just the dancing itself that’s hard; there is a whole lot of stuff you have to do before you even take to the floor. I know. I was a dancer once.
I took up Old Tyme dancing at seven and loved it. Under 12s were allowed to partner girls, and after one disastrous pairing in which we won nothing (ever the competitor, and angry at my partner’s incompetency, I look as if I have swallowed a bee in the photos), I was paired with Janette, a year older. The main problem was that she was considerably taller than me, but my hairdresser mother was convinced that with a pair of three-inch heels and her great supply of hairpieces, she would be able to Taj Mahal me to Janette’s level and nobody would notice the difference.
Our first dresses were orange – or amber, as the material supplier flatteringly called the shade. They were decorated with silver Lurex around the neck and we each had a pair of long, silver armlets that made it look as if we had inadvertently landed a couple of trout on our way to the competition. The sequins were sown in clusters of three all over the bodice and we had silver shoes to match.
It was hard to miss us when we took to the floor. Mum discovered previously hidden artistic talents as she joyously constructed massive follicled skyscrapers on my scalp. My natural hair – a kind of sleek skullcap with not even a kink in it – was deemed very unglamorous for the world we had entered and, as good as her word, Mum managed to disguise the height difference with a variety of triffid-like busbees that had adjudicators diving for cover as we gavotted towards them.
Breasts were also a big problem. I had, and continue to have, problems understanding why girl dancers as young as four need breasts, but that was, and is, very much the norm. To this end, two mini aircraft hangars were fitted into each of our dresses, and we joined this army of breastless breasts marching, in unison, like some glorious, sequined, Himalayan range.
If my breasts were those of a lactating woman, my make-up took me well into menopausal territory. I hated it. I could just about cope with a bit of foundation and eyeshadow, but by the mascara and lipstick stages I was desperately unhappy. I had blue eyeshadow, red lipstick and enough mascara to tar several fences. I used to blink when Mum started on the mascara, and always she told me off for blackening the whole canvas and forcing her to start again.
I loathed the red clown’s lips she painted on me, giving my thin lips an extra line to make them look more appealing to the judges. The only thing that made us look remotely like our real age were our enormous net and taffeta dresses, which added a childlike playfulness to the ensemble, even if it was the kind of playfulness that made us look like two crinoline toilet roll covers on the run. But we won everything, and in 1969, when I was 10 and my partner Janette 11, we walked away with two whacking great trophies at the Butlin’s Minehead annual national championships.
I moved on to Latin American and Ballroom with boy partners at 12 and had mixed success, and it was a different world, and decent males were hard to come by. One partnership ended when my partner was injured doing a step called the Dead Man’s Drop in the Rumba. Let’s just say that he ended up nearly the dead man and my skull was the drop.
One afternoon, another boy on whom I had a huge crush, turned up at our house as his partner had been taken ill and there was a big championship looming and he had no one to compete with. I learned five routines in three days (that really is no mean feat) and, incredibly, we came fourth.
You can see how exhausted the competitors are on Strictly after just one routine; imagine doing five dances on the trot at competition level, often two days running on weekends. Outwardly, it’s all smiles and sequins; inwardly, it’s often agony, emotional and physical. Yes, it’s joyous, too, and I was never happier than when I was on the floor, the music entering every fibre of my being as I danced my way to (often) another trophy.
So, Strictly competitors, as you take on this immense battle, be prepared; grow a pair (of balls, not breasts), because it ain’t gonna be easy. On or off camera.
And remember: smile, though your heart is aching. And your feet are breaking.
You’ll find that life is still worthwhile, if you just smile.