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'Strictly Come Dancing' week 3: Neat and tidy downstairs

The Strictly train is well under way, mis amigos, which means that it is time to start introducing a theme for each week. More often than not the theme is tenuously adhered to by the dancers and even less so by the resources-strapped costuming department. It becomes reminiscent of my childhood Halloweens, when my mother would slap together an outfit for me on the day based on whatever happened to be at hand: “Well, we’ve got some pantyhose, an empty tube of Quaker Oats, a football helmet, and some eyeliner that isn’t my shade… what can we make out of that?”

Strictly Come Dancing week 2: Crazy V gets her groove back

He had missed the count-in from the beginning of the song, so spent much of the dance just making stuff up. I would admire Nicky greatly if this were his overall response to adversity: when in trouble, boogie. You can imagine him in an elevator in a high-rise building. The cable snaps, the car begins to plummet, and Nicky decides the only thing he can do is bust a move.

“Thank God you were doing the running man as you went down, Mr. Byrne. You jumped at just the right time and it ended up saving your life.”

Strictly Week 1: Riley shakes it

If you didn’t love that performance you are incapable of experiencing joy. Really. You have problems and I feel deeply sorry for you. The rest of us, the ones who are not cold, unfeeling wretches, were loving that noise, yo. Because it wasn’t just that the dance itself was fun and energetic and great to watch –– which it was –– but also that it hinted at something more, something better, something camper.

Fire up the Strictly machine

Can you imagine the stories that Jerry Hall and Bruno Toniolio could tell? I’m inclined to blush just thinking about it. Just imagine being in a room in which the two of them were exchanging tales of their exploits. The paint would peel from the walls, my friends. You’d come out of there, quivering and needing to be baptised for several hours: “Nope, dunk me again. No, believe me, preacher; I am nowhere near pure. Dunk me again.”

Strictly 11: Poppin' dem 40s

Harry displays one of he new-found facial expressions. Craig Revel Horwood finally dusted off the 10 paddle this week, which means it must be time for the final. I suspect the…

Strictly week 10: Holly's weekend

Strictly week 9: Not on the good foot

Photo from BBC

Strictly week 7: Immortal, darling

Each time I sit down to write a recap of the previous weekend’s “Strictly Come Dancing” action I ask myself: “What was the one thing that stood out most? What sticks vividly in my memory?”

 Usually, whatever comes to me, I take as the highlight of the weekend. If it lasts through the port-induced haze, it must be amazing, right? But this week the thing I recall most is Claudia Winkleman’s hair in the results show. Honestly. I mean, I have always loved Claudia in part because she is so wonderfully un-TV. For a woman who shows up on myriad television programmes, she frequently has the look and demeanour of someone who’s just been pulled from a dressing room at an Asda on a Sunday morning.

More on my blog: Dancing the Polka with Miss El Cajon.

Strictly week 6: Hands that do dishes

Yes, I am fully aware of UN resolution 1515: “Nobody puts Baby in the corner.” I understand its implications fully and am perfectly willing to accept the use of military to see the resolution properly enforced. But why did they have to put Baby in the seat of a “Strictly Come Dancing” judge? The presence of Jennifer Grey was, to me, one of the most difficult aspects of this past weekend of Strictly. The excuse was that Len (yes, that’s him on the left — back in his glory days) went on holiday, which almost certainly has to be false. Who schedules a holiday right in the middle of a show’s run?

More on my blog: Dancing the Polka with Miss El Cajon

Strictly week 5: Strictly Come Haunting

In the alternate-universe narrative I maintain for Russell, he was once the biggest queen on the circuit. From Miami to Brighton to Sydney, the queers, dykes, fag hags and fag stags would fill the clubs every night almost breaking into riots to see the glorious Mama Rose perform. 

But after a time it became too much. 

The fame.

The boys.The alcohol. 

Well, darling, one can never have too many boys. But, still it became such a strain on Mama Rose that he started dusting his margarita glasses with crushed painkillers rather than sugar or salt. Eventually, it all fell apart and Mama Rose slipped into anonymity and legend. 

Now, his estranged niece, daughter of his ridiculous heterosexual brother (honestly, how embarrassing!) has come to ask Mama Rose for help. Innocent little Flavia dreams of winning the glitter-ball trophy.

“Honey, you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” says Mama Rose, signalling with a swizzle stick to one of his be-thonged cabana boys that another cocktail is desired.

“Please,” begs Flavia. “I know I can win.”

“You think it’s that easy, do you?” snaps Mama Rose. “This is the glitter-ball trophy, sweetie. Do you even understand that? You think you can just show up with your little abs and white teeth and they’ll just hand you the glitter-ball trophy?! Ha!! They. Will. Tear. You. Apart.”

“Uncle Russell…”

“Uncle Russell, indeed. Don’t play the family card on me, darling. I will never understand what went wrong with my brother that he ended up with a woman. Ugh. I feel ill thinking about it.”

“Mama Rose, please. Please. I know I can win. I know we can win.”

And so Mama Rose came back. And word spread. And again they cheered his name from the balconies.

But now, the old ghosts have come back, too. The old fears. And new pain. Mama Rose is not the vibrant queen he used to be. And this past weekend he was out of it. Tired and moody, removed. Maybe Mama Rose just doesn’t have it in him anymore. Can Flavia pull him back? Can the greatest be great again?