Week 6

Well, I feel terrible for dance lover Jimi Mistry – he looked so very sad to be leaving last night. Sure, he wasn’t as good as everyone thought he’d be, but he was definitely better than many of the others. Poor Team Flavistry (and our very own Laura, of course - she tells me her family will now have to go without Christmas gifts.) Though I was glad to see Flavia making no attempt to hide her disgust about the whole thing. Course, that might have been a reaction to her curtain tassel top and brass band trousers.

Sad then, but maybe not that much of a shock, in retrospect (also, Gavin called it just before the results show). There’s always a ‘shock’ exit around this time – when a good one goes and a rubbish one stays. It’s just that it’s usually James Jordan and his inflated ego who are kicked out, to the relief of many, including his celebrity partner. No, the real shock will be if one of the hot favourites goes – Kara, Matt or Scott, or PamJam at a push. But I think the unstoppable Widdenaut will steamroll past at least one of those couples before the voting public will be stunned into no longer voting for her. Then it will be time for real action – no more ‘oh Ann’s so entertaining and hilarious’. No, no, it will be full steam ahead on ‘GET RID OF THAT FAT TORY WITCH, THIS IS A DANCE COMPETITION FOR F***’S SAKE’. I can’t wait! Until then though, isn’t her crush on Anton sweet!?! (I jest – it makes me physically ill. Course, that’s probably more to do with Anton. Yuck/shudder/vom. Kill. Every time. Regardless of who I have to shag or marry.)

As for the rest, well, that’s kind of it. It was a bit of a non-show in ‘comedy blog’ terms. After the gimmicky, ker-AZY Halloween week, everyone was a bit muted and hungover. The dancing was fine, good even – the weaker dancers are improving, so it’s levelling out a bit (which would be good if it were a dance competition!!!! Oh yes, the sweet smell of biting sarcasm, right there.) The scoring was utterly ridiculous, but that’s nothing new. Scott Maslen’s perfunctory rumba (and you can cross “the rumba’s such a difficult dance for the man” off your Len Goodman bingo card) was the most bizarre example: Len gave him a 9 and Craig gave him a 4. ?!?!? (There may have been a logical explanation for all that, but Sssssssssscott’s judging coincided with a mega-brilliant firework display in our square, so I had to rush to the window to watch it and squeal like a child. It was completely awesome.)

We didn’t even have much costume joy, though I quite enjoyed Vinthent removing his age 12 bolero jacket (not in a sexy way – please) and throwing it over Felicity’s head, in a comedy paso strop. And of course Robin came up trumps again, wearing a slashed-to-the-navel version of the (hideous – obviously) seventies brown nylon lounge suit Brendan wore a few weeks back, with its incredible pot belly-producing properties. I mean, seriously, what’s that about? Those dancers aren’t fat! And yet, their tummies were evident – maybe it’s because they could only muster the courage to don their poo slacks after several beers in the belly? Anyway, everyone else looked fine. Except Tess, of course, who was rocking a look I like to call ‘wedding emu’.

So that’s that. I’ll leave it there, as if I start to rant about the so-called ‘dance’ troupe, I fear I may never stop. (Ian, you are BETTER than that!)