OMG BIG DRAMZ! And the mid-table curse claims another victim. There were four couples with fewer points than Colin and Kristina, and one other couple on the same score, and yet it was Colina, and Julie’s £1, for the chop. What does this tell us? Well, that fans of daytime TV, Westlife and chronically toned abs are more likely to be at home with their phones on a Saturday night than Resident Evil enthusiasts (surprising). It also tells us (like we didn't know) that the judges' scores are basically plucked at random on a egotistical whim, rather than methodologically determined via a consistent, cross-checked, carefully thought-out tally system. (Though, in his defence, Len did admit to some sort of rule - confirming he'll attribute one extra point for lady boobie shaking up at the judges' desk.)
I didn't think Colin and Kristina's foxtrot was too bad at all; once again Kristina (this week dressed as Barbie Loo Roll Holder) found a multitude of ways to deal with the vast distance between their respective chins and I quite enjoyed Colin's flamboyant kicks, even if Darcey meanly likened them to some John Cleese legography (fortunately clarifying that she meant his Silly Walks and not Basil Fawlty taking on a particular German stereotype). However, come the dance off, it felt like they’d already given up, and his high kicks lacked gusto, as did the rest of the dance. I’m sure I saw Colin shed a tear and his 'wiggle your finger at the judges' move looked more like a wave goodbye. I was sad too - in spite of their rather defeatist performance, it felt quite harsh to see them go before some of the other couples (coughFERN&VICTORIAcough).
Has anyone checked on Kristina? Hopefully Joe Calzaghe is there for her, as I'd imagine she'll be inconsolable just now – not all Russians have Artem's robotic approach to emotional outpourings. Even though the prod team totally screwed her over this year, Kristina tried exceptionally hard to produce some great routines for her and Colin; creaking her neck and stretching her arms like NEVER BEFORE to dance with the giant one – we could practically see the cogs in her brain whirring around as she worked out how the hell to choreograph her way through trials like the stupid height difference and lucrative American dramas filming in Canada. I bloody love Kristina. The campaign for la Rihanoff to get the 2013 He-Ringer STARTS HERE. He should be short and young and popular and lithe and (ideally) pre-trained as a dancer.
I bloody love Erin too – so she can have the other He-Ringer for 2013 (if she hasn’t turned to pregnancy or a well-deserved ocean cruise holiday by then). Of course, it’s no surprise to see Erin’s defying the odds with Richard so far – Miss Whiplash has the steely determination and sheer balls to survive several weeks beyond her partner’s sell by date. It will take a brave judge to look her in the eye at D-O elimination and not say her name.
On Saturday, Erin and Richard’s foxtrot truly was a dahhnce dis-ahhhhh-ster, so we were all pretty sure that they’d get another go at it on Sunday – if only to show us how Erin had intended Big Spender to look. I'll admit that I preferred their first go – to my mind, a foxtrot can always do with spicing up, although just shuffling around looking freaked before collapsing into giggles is a risky notion. My guess is that they had decided to attempt method acting, and, seeing as the concept was Richard turning up at Erin's Gin Palace and seducing her through the power of liquor, pinstripe and money, they decided to spend all their rehearsals at the bar - it's just that Miss Whiplash can totally hold her martini, whereas two gin slings later, Richard Arnold is anyone's. However, he must have had a few coffees and Erin-administered slaps in the interval, as their dance-off foxtrot went off without a hitch, whilst Colina dejectedly stumbled.
We're always hearing about how tricky particular dances are (foxtrot, rumba and samba seem to get the most press on that front), so it probably wasn't too much of a surprise that it was two foxtrots in the bottom two – especially for those of us who find the foxtrot only mildly less snoresome than the waltz. But Nat and Michael's foxtrot sailed through this week, with great scores and comments - deserved, I think, as Richard’s finally clicked with ballroom, after Hanging Basket Bum Gate. I wasn’t entirely sure about Natbot's rather bizarre notion to set a sophisticated foxtrot on the seafront. Was there a candyfloss pun or something that I missed? Maybe it was inspired by the fouffe-i-ness of Nat's ballgown, which was was very fouffe-y indeed.
Random seaside concept aside, shall we briefly celebrate how lovely it was to be theme-free this week? HOORAY! Well, other than the unofficial BOOB THEME – it was Push Up a go go. Tess and Erin particularly took it upon themselves to instigate an impromptu Hooters Week, but was Artem who won the Best Breasticle crown – going fully topless, in a shameless AND SUCCESSFUL attempt to keep Fartem in for at least one more round. I've had to watch their paso again (I know – such a drag), as all I remember from first time around was Pecs Ahoy and Ahoy Some More, oiled and broody, and... well no wonder Fern needed a giant fan prop. It's worth multiple viewings really, as eventually Artem's chest starts to blur and you notice other touches of class – like the comedy trambone waaah waaah paso music and the fact that the choreography is a perfect blend of Artem peacocking, whilst Fern stands still and skirt-wafts, and Artem going all greco-roman and throwing Fern on the ground a lot – total kudos for the way she just takes it, with a resigned expression and instinctive rigor mortis, before she topples to the ground. It must've HURT.
Anyway, the lesson here is that nudity works, so we can all expect Artem in Y-fronts next week and God help the BBC Complaints Department if they make it a fortnight. Full Frontal Wembley.
It might even get competitive - if Robin and Lisa start to near the dangerzone, Mr Windsor could undoubtedly put up a good fight in the battle of the Protein Shake Buff Off. And part of me hopes Ri-Ro start to feel the fear soon, as we haven't been graced with a proper Windsor nipple sighting for at least two weeks now. I hope I’m being honest when I say it wasn't the lack of flesh that put me off their tango, as I don't think it would have helped - the main problem was the terrible, terrible song choice. I'm no purist - I'm quite up for a pop-tango, but Let's Stick Together completely lacked the dramatic impact needed in this case. The whole thing was also far too purple - I'm going to have nightmares of Willy Wonka binging on Quality Street and Silk Cut at a Prince concert after that. (CAUSE ALL THOSE THINGS ARE PURPLE, RIGHT?)
Nicky Westlife also got a pretty shoddy outfit in the draw – male rumbas are tricky at the best of times, but even a decade of being in Westlife can't be more embarrassing than having to get his hip action on whilst wearing that turquoise nylon blouse-igan. I wonder which old lady Wardrobe mugged for that one? Clearly an old lady who collects horrible fake Swarovski animal broaches, and had them merrily pinned all over her overgarments. But Nicky is a good sport and he knows the value of just getting on with the artistically dubious and sucking it up, as it's made him a gazillionaire. So he managed not to laugh for ninety seconds whilst Karen writhed around him and did some sexy sniffing (which may not be the official name for the move, but that's what Mr Cad termed it). The judges were typically harsh, but Nicky must be used to that by now - and it only serves to make Westlife's core fanbase phone all the harder. Again, they’re used to responding to scathing artistic criticism with their wallets - and a phone call's got to be cheaper than a fullscale back tattoo.
Victoria, on the other hand, usually has an array of lovely comments from judges, regardless of how the dance went (no-one wants to make the Olympian weep, though I’m disappointed that Tess hasn’t had a go with a particularly biting question). This week, the three judges we did hear from were a little more critical.... oh yes, that’s right – the THREE judges, and if you can sense bitterness in my voice, well YOU ARE DAMN RIGHT I'M BITTER. Seriously!!!! It happened throughout the show that we couldn’t hear from all four judges, I assume because of time concerns, and it was a total pile of crapskull! We have to put up with extensively rubbish Bruce faff for several million hours, which he apparently can't do in the allocated time, what with his inability to read the auto-cue (PasTa Kovalev, anyone), leaving us with too little time to hear what the DANCE judges have to say about the DANCING competition, and.... ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH etc.
(To be honest, there’s plenty more where that came from, all riffing on a very familiar theme, in pure unadulterated high volume block capitals, but I’m going to leave it there for the sake of my typing muscles. But needless to say, it angers me somewhat.)
Returning to Brendleton, it's worth noting that they also got a rough deal in the wardrobe stakes. They’d put Victoria’s perfect frame in an ice-skating dress inspired by the lingerie section of the Freeman's catalogue, with an inexplicable belly button peephole and weird silk boob pockets that made her cups look oddly under-filled. Meanwhile, Brendan was dressed in a white sequin-studded chiffon shirt, not quite slashed to the navel, which redefined all notions of 'vile'. Though, obviously, on Robin it would have been a complete triumph.
As for their samba, well I'm not going to criticise, because I have recently discovered firsthand how difficult the samba is - at my weekly zumba class, which I'm sure is an entirely appropriate and equivalent comparison. Getting that bounce action – well, unlike Shakira, my hips have no choice but to tell a series of entirely fabricated porkies, as it's bloody difficult. Course, Olympic Louis doesn’t find the hip action so tricky, does he – he happily bounced and pelvic-thrusted his way throughout his samba routine, showing his well-constructed form in a shirt made of 30 denier Wolford stockings and some rather snug trousers. (Somebody pass me Fern's fan.)
Inspired by Natalie (or was it vice versa), the concept for his and Flavia's samba was *literally* constructed around a hastily built beach hut, plonked on the Strictly stage, complete with coconut cocktails and straws (I’m surprised they didn’t also have Anton behind the bar, manning the drinks). Licence fee payers will be delighted to know that the beach shack was used for all of three seconds in the routine, although it did play a pivotal role as a bar(re) against which Louis had a good old bum shake.
Come judging, Darcey pretended that the Louis’ samba wasn't doing it for her, which was total fib city, but I don’t blame her - she's not unreasonably decided to nip it in the bud with the ‘filthy old mare’ persona that Bruce and the production had decided to foist on her and reel it back a notch for a few weeks. (Also, she knows better than to tread any further on Arlene's turf.) However, the men were freely able to declare that Louis was great, without having to worry about endless weeks of horny cougar/lady thigh rubber stereotyping, so the truth still came out. Len then happily bore on about a whole load of official samba steps that are probably real, but he might equally have completely made up on the spot; one was called ‘the maypole’ which I suppose is in keeping with Flavia’s penchant for bondage.
Louis Face Watch: keep smiling and pretend you can't smell the fart.
Flavia Hair Watch: Duane Dibbley bedhead.
Talking of bad hair, BLOODY PASHA. He's gone and got the razor out again, hasn't he? And it's not like I can blame Aliona's return, seeing as she's not back on the scene yet. Anyway, the Pasha-Kimba salsa opened with Kimberley descending from the ceiling on a ring swing (RING FAFF), before shaking her mane for a good minute (HAIR FAFF), then slapping both hands on the judges' desk and shaking it some more (SHAMELESS SUCK-UP TACTICS FAFF). Having said that, there was plenty of funky 'armology' (NEW TERM! NEW TERM! Or possibly Bruno inadvertently mangling the English language even more than usual) and there were a few choice lifts in there too, even if they had something of the judo throw about them. I thought it was a bit tame, but the judges loved it. Craig, especially, went all Shift + F7 on its ass and threw out a thesaurus of words beginning with L, all variations on 'whorishly dancing like a right little prick-tease'. Kimba was delighted – it’s unclear whether or not she had a full grasp of the dictionary meanings, but I think we can all agree he meant them as a compliment.
Compliments were showered on Van Jam too, with a very elegant Viennese Waltz, even if we had to gaze on the tacky blond highlight tips in what remains of James Jordan's hair. (Another one for my Bad Hair List *sigh*.) I do find James Jordan irritatingly confusing – once again he comes up with a lovely piece of graceful choreography designed to please both Len and Craig (and successfully so!) and yet he ruins it with his lads’ night clubbing barnet – just a Ben Sherman shirt away from getting Id-ed by a furious bouncer.
Denise got a bunch of 9s (though not from Darcey) and the race is now on for the first 10 – it's got to be a Van Outen-Louis showdown, right? Mind you – outside bet – it's not completely impossible that Dani could sneak a ten soon. She pulled a out a cracking jive and, particularly impressively, managed to get through it without pissing herself laughing at Vinthent's new wig – this week he'd come as a fifties Vulcan. Perhaps she managed to hold off the laughter because the comedy of Vinthzie Simonerelli's hair was offset by her own slightly suspect outfit; a cutesome fifties dress cut from the leopard print curtains of Erin's Gin Palace.
Erin’s Gin Palace... I totally want to go now – I bet it would be AMAZING. Who's in? I propose we go there for absinthe and bitching, after pre-dinner cocktails at Flavia's Beach Bar and burgers at Vinthent's Diner. We could even make a day of it and check out Natalie's Candyfloss Stall in the afternoon.
And whilst we're there, perhaps we can be entertained by the Strictly Male Professional Dance Troupe – who trotted out a frankly hilarious dance number, all thrusts, chests and man-pouts. Artem was dangled from the ceiling like a modern dance Jesus, Robin wiggled his bum with Brazilian frenzy and Vinthent leaped out of the audience with the sexually-charged fervour of a kitten attacking some wool. It was equal parts Chippendale, Backstreet Boys and cocktail waiter, no doubt carefully designed to juice the oestrogen and HRT levels like NOTHING BEFORE! But... well, it left me hot flush-free, I’m afraid. Basically it didn't have enough a) blatant homo-eroticism or b) lime-green string vest and/or c) pleather waistcoat action. But I suppose we should be relieved that Anton wasn't involved.
However, I think I’d rather see Anton do homo-erotic latin in string vest pleather than watch The Wanted again. UNWANTED MORE LIKE. Ha! Bet no-one’s thrown that verbal smackdown at them before! Well, other than a billion people, including me - this time in 2011 when they last appeared. Nothing like a bit of self-plagiarism, eh? What stood then, stands now – and I certainly stand by my assessment that they are very shit and majority fugly. A year has not improved them.
Fortunately, The Unwanted were followed by a truly fantastic pro-routine to Nessun Dorma – lots of barefooted flailing and impressive showdance lifting. At the start, there was a brief moment when I actually thought Katya was BACK AMONGST US, but it was actually Karen taking on Pasha duties. What a chore for her.
Anyway, that’s the dancing done, so it’s time to devote a rather belated bitchy old paragraph to perennial favourite TessDressMess. Thing is, Tess didn't all-out misfire this time round, neither on Saturday nor Sunday - worrying times. I mean, it's not ideal that the inspiration for Tess' Saturday dress was Pamela Anderson's Baywatch cossie in evening gown form, with added leg split to not-so-tastefully offset the rather large crowd on the Daly balcony (Hello Wonderbra). But the truth is this - that red dress could SO easily have been a red jumpsuit that I'm marking it down as relative TessDressSuccess. Sunday's milkmaid come cocktail dress wasn’t markedly hideous either – I'm not a fan of LWDs, but it fit her comparatively well. And I certainly preferred to it Darcey's massive beaded ruff – it takes a brave girl to take on so many pearl necklaces.
I just hope Tess is saving the monster of all frock horrors for next week, where she'll be in charge, ably assisted by the comedy genious that is la Winkleman. (I love Len’s Lens, and I don’t care who knows it.) I predict that Tess will amp up the sluttiness, seeing as there’s no Bruce to fight off during their contractually obligated “stars of our show” crotch to buttock 'dance' move, she can feel free to explore her inner harlot.
It says a lot about my level of Forsythe-presentation-hate that I'm really looking forward to having Tess at the helm for a couple of hours, but I truly cannot wait for NO BRUCE WEEK! I hope he has an enjoyable rest on the golf course, maybe to the extent that he, you know, keeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeps playing. Say, every Saturday evening? Lovely.
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