Ten weeks already? Ten truly terrible dresses from Tess (alliteration or WHAT, folks), ten weeks of Len’s appalling puns, ten weeks of Claudia, and, unbelievably, ten weeks of Anton. Whodathunk?
So, three weeks to go and only seven couples left in game. Who’s likely to win? Professional Northerner Georgia (“I’m Northern”) May Foote and her sweaty Sicilian partners are ahead on scores, but Anita and Gleb are definitely in the running. For my money, Jay and Aliona should win it, if Jay can go from being a poodle-haired introvert to an expressive sex god via the Charleston. I can’t see Katie and Anton, Kellie and Kevin or Helen and Aljaz winning it, and after Peter Andre looked to be in pole position in the early weeks, now he just looks like a pole dancer in search of one, so I’m going to discount him.
By way of a disclaimer, I have terrible form predicting winners for any reality competition, so if you skip off the bookies on the strength of this blog, it’s entirely your own fault.
This week Tess was dressed like an upmarket toilet roll, whilst Claudia wore a hideous, black and white striped number that made her look a magpie flattened by a truck. Seriously, who is their stylist?
On the subject of outfits, every week Kellie is dressed in something gruesome that looks like it came from the T K Maxx bargain bin. Every, single, week. Anyway she and Kevin danced a salsa which I thought a tad meh, but Len declared “Ar fort it woz fabbluless” and the other judges agreed with him. Pfft. What do they know?
Anton, wearing the beatific expression of one who cannot believe he is still in the competition, danced an Argentine Tango with Katie. Notoriously crap at Latin, (dancing, not the language), Anton did surprisingly well. There were a few clunky moves but Katie looked glorious and the audience loves them so much that when he clumsily hoisted her into half-hearted lift the audience went bananas and roared with delight. Not that the approval of the studio audience is anything to get excited about, as they’re so easily pleased they’d give a standing ovation to a chicken laying an egg.
Helen and Aljaž danced the Viennese Waltz to ‘At Last’ by Etta James and they were absolutely gorgeous. Dreamy, soft, perfect lines, immaculate timing. The judges adored their dance and Helen cried an elegantly twinkly tear of gratitude. She won’t win though (I refer you to my earlier comment re the bookies.)
Jay and Aliona danced the Tango to Prince’s ‘When Doves Cry’ and all I can say was it was the best Tango I’ve ever seen on Strictly. Len, the miserable old twat, blathered on about Jay missing some heel leads, and then inexplicably announced “Vat woz a mango of a tango.” WTAF? The old fool should be pensioned off immediately.
Throughout footage of his training, the Andre wore an ugly knitted hat borrowed from a smurf, although he has an orange rather than a blue face. Perhaps he was revving up for a six part Channel Five series entitled Me And My Smurf Kids? Anyway, he and his partner danced the American Smooth to ‘Sweetest Feeling’ by Jackie Wilson. He seems an affable chap and I wish him well, but his free arm waved around so randomly it looked like he was directing traffic. He and Katie are now the weakest dancers in the competition. “You’ve obviously worked very hard,” said Darcy, kindly, the Strictly equivalent of slapping a sticker on him that reads “I ate my greens at Jamie’s Italian”.
Anita and Gleb danced the Rumba to ‘Read All About It’ by Emeli Sande. Remember those days when no public occasion could take place without Emeli Sande singing throughout? I wonder what she’s up to now. Anita was dressed in her nightie and Gleb’s shirt revealed a chest smoother than a Tefal frying pan. Len disliked their dance because it didn’t contain enough basic Rumba, eliciting boos from the audience. Len protested his judging credentials. “Ar don’t come ear to blather on.” I beg to differ, Len.
Whoo-hoo, Georgia! She bangs on about being from the North so much I think she’s trying to reach George R R Martin via the BBC so she can join the cast of Game of Thrones (#ballroomiscoming). Dressed as a dead crow with Kristen Stewart eye make-up, she and a leather-clad Gleb hurled themselves angrily round the dance floor like two goths who’d been told there were no rooms available in Whitby. It was magnificent.
The Quick Step-a-thon. It was like watching seven pedalos trying to steer clear of one another in a choppy sea, and Helen emerged triumphant. She still won’t win (I refer you etc).
You know what’s so lovely about Strictly? It’s absolutely joyous. Everyone in it loves every minute, everyone wants to win, and yet they’re kind to their fellow competitors and generous in their praise of one another. X Factor, take note.