Series 10 - Week 6

Happy happy happy happy NO BRUCE WEEK, people!  Wasn't it good?  YES!  BLOODY GOOD! All hail Queen Claude and Competent Tess – I watched Strictly fury-free, with sprinkles of Winkles-inspired giggles throughout.  Can we have that every week please?  I'm sure Bruce was having a lovely time on the golf course or having a nap or watching Generation Game reruns, whilst we were having an equally lovely time not having to listen to terrible jokes and name-mangling.  Tess even donned a total horror for her top dog hosting duties – dressing as Sexy Donald Trump.  I knew she wouldn't let me down!  Sure, Sunday hailed a surprising - and surely temporary - return to her well-fitted cocktail dress run, but at least it was randomly made of Laura Ashley’s finest all-purpose home fabric (curtains, lamps, tablecloths, evening gowns – perfect for all your middle class needs) and she did match it with scarlet ankle boots – I’m still musing on that one.

 

As for the dance comp, well ciao for now, Artem's pecs.  Evidently, once you go full frontal paso, it's not enough to throw on an unbuttoned shirt and have your man-nips flirt with us – we want to see chest contour and we want to see it NOW, else we will coldly vote you off.  (Take heed, Robin Windsor.)  Fern did well to stay this far (thank you pectoral power) and, on balance, I quite enjoyed her salsa, with its added thigh and 'satirical' take on Kimba's boobie-flaunt at the judges' desk - although I could have done without the random cleaning lady faff and the unfortunate cut of her salsa dress around the upper back area.

 

So bye bye Fartem and sorry Vix - it's goodbye to your £1, but I'm sure you'll join me in paying tribute to Fern's hair, which was always exemplary. 

 

AND THEN TO THE SHOCKING DRAMA.  Kimba and Pashalicious in the Bottom Two!!! Well, that's what happens when you invite Cheryl Cole to watch you dance, it would seem - even if you do end up joint-second on the leader board.  I thought Kimba did a gorgeous Viennese Waltz of beautiful Princess Gorgonzola proportions, so I'm going to have to blame Chezza, and Pasha's determination to take the razor to his own hair again.   And possibly also the silvery fish skin finish to Kimba's dress which, as Mr Cad so wisely noted, looked like that bit under the salmon you're not sure if you're supposed to eat.

 

The Twitter debate rages on, but at times like this that I do feel particularly pro-dance-off.  I appreciate the argument that the D-O affects people's voting/sympathy patterns and leaves the top lot more vulnerable, but at least we can (generally) rely on the judges to save the better dancers - I'd have been pretty annoyed to see Kimberley leave over Fern, Richard, Pendles, Nicky and Michael, and maybe even some of the others.  But I get that we're in for a sticky old time if it's not just the middle of the table that needs extra vote action and even the frontrunners aren't getting the phone calls.  Sure, there was a fair old bit of jostling at the top this week, as there was a very high number of great performances, but STILL – Pasherley were in silver medal position, so they had a head start on everyone but James and Denise.

 

Indeed, Van Jam must be quaking a bit, as next week they won't be able to rely on the delicious Ian to 'moder-Waite' old JJ and make him seem less of a **** (fill in as appropriate).  James made a concerted effort to laugh along at all the 'I love Ian' comments in the VT and play it jokey jealous (he didn't have to stretch his acting skills too hard, eh?).  And (I think) he was genuine in his public thank yous, but he couldn't sustain the niceties and right at the end, post score-giving, he finally broke cover, with a hugely peeved and sarcastic “all right, Denise”, signalling that enough was enough.  Mind you, his fury might also have been on account of the tremendous pain from dancing on a botched jelly-ankle.  Ouchy.

 

I loved their paso though – even if James was dressed as a matador-cyclist/aging Hunger Games tribute. I'm just a total sucker for a dramatic paso doble and now think they should probably all be danced to Seven Nation Army.

 

I'm also a total sucker for a dramatic tango and it turns out that I'll enjoy the drama just as much if it opens with a shot of Vinthent Simone dialling a pretend phone and giving it some Italian rhubarb rhubarb (“rababaro rababaro”) - though it turns out (ta Len’s Lens) that he was actually going method and was trying to phone-sex Darcey with a bunch of ‘bellas’ and a reference to himself as the Italian Pony – HOW I LAFFED.  Meanwhile Dani Harmer looked on from behind the perspex with daggers in her eyes - what an actress!  She managed to pretend she was utterly crazed with lust for Vinthent without breaking down in unstoppable giggles.  She even carried off the appropriate dramz in a belly top and jitterbug skirt, which was a little odd, but I suppose there's no reason why a fifties pin-up can't express her frustration through the medium of tango.

 

On the downside, distinct lack of Vinth wig.

 

Anyway, with such great performances from Dani, Denise and Kimba, Louis had to settle for fourth place – in large part down to Craig's über-grumpy under-scoring.  I mean, I can pass on waltzes too, but Louis did his very competently, in spite of his continued ignore-the-fart face. (Maybe it's JUST HIS FACE). 

 

It was also nice how Flavia engineered things to finish on a garden sex swing – I'd have thought that would be right up Craig's street...   But no, and Louis got a 6.  The judges had a right old row about it, shouting Craig down and Len referring to his comments as a “load of bolognaise”, which I'm sorry to say made me laugh out loud.  Bruce would probably have waded in with some incomprehensible Bruce waffle and pretend Victorian boxing, but Tess just stood on by and let them have it out in a cacophony of pompous judge noise, all sneering East End, posh no no nos and wild Italian gesturing/personal-space obliviousness – this is not a criticism.

 

I'm usually with Craig (or thereabouts), but scoring Louis the same as Fern was a little WTFy, let's face it...  Only Michael was scored lower, but seeing as he was back to “batting for the latin side” (BRUNO 4EVA), it was fairly inevitable that he wouldn't be getting any high paddle action.  Michael's salsa wasn't quite the all-out wonderful hot mess that we saw with his jive, but it did have some excellent hip mince, performed in his very own time signature.  But they also had some cracking lifts - 'crack' being the operative word, as Natalie decided she would see Artem's pecs and raise him some turquoise lacy knickers.

 

Indeed it was buttocks galore, as, rather surprisingly, Erin also flashed her pants – though at least her bum was more modestly covered in high denier lilac.  Erin’s not a natural charleston dancer – too much poise and not enough gawky quirk - but she knew full well what was expected of her and clearly accepted that comedy bum slapping was a necessary evil - and it paid off, as they've made Wembley.  They can celebrate down the Gin Bar.  She also made sure there was some (sort of) swimming in there, even if it wasn't the full commitment to lying on the floor, mounting your partner and breast-stroking. (THE STROKE, NOT THE... Oh, never mind).  I especially enjoyed Richard's teenage hysteria at getting through to Wembley – as surprised as the rest of us that he's made it this far.  And probably still drunk.

 

Pendles is still hanging on too, by *literally* hanging on to Brendan mainly - a quickstep requires lots of speedy footwork, regardless of how hard you're clinging on, but fortunately the OLYMPIC ATHLETE could keep up on on that front, even if it looked a bit gallopy here and there.  She also managed a dabble in acting, playing the role of the beautiful but haughty mega-affluent New York WASP bossing about our Brendan (the bell boy of ballroom).  Seeing as Brendan could have picked pretty much ANY scenario from his mind, it's interesting to note that he went for a submissive role; dragging luggage for tips’n’totty, before offering up his package to Craig for inspection.  Perhaps I’m reading too much into it.

Nicky seems to be improving too, although my favourite parts of his foxtrot were Karen’s dress colour (shame about the rhinestone mermaid bodice) and their funky microphone whirling, which is Alanis Morrissette-ironic really, seeing as neither of those things were proper foxtrot bits.  Also, I don’t understand the point of carry-it-yourself microphone stands - but at least no-one Westlife-related used this one for singing.

 

I preferred Lisa and Robin’s foxtrot, in spite of the lack of chiffon-for-him – seriously guys, if Lisa was in chiffon from the thigh down, why not Mr Windsor too?  I mean, imagine!  (Especially as this series has been disappointingly low on fancy trousers, so far.)  The judges raved about it, so I was expecting some nines, but no cigar.  But I did enjoy the tense moment when Len told Lisa she had the F-factor, and everyone took a sharp inhale of breath, before Len explained that it stood for foxtrot and footwork and fun.  Phew.

 

As for the Sunday pro-dance, well, I urge you to catch Midnight Tango live, if you can – my sister, mum and I saw it last year and it was goooooooood, even if (and this is properly bitchy, even by my standards) it turns out that the world’s other amazing AT dancers aren’t quite as attractive and glossy as Vinthent and Flavia – I mean, unless Vinth'n'Flavs purposefully didn’t chose the most godlike beautifully gorgeous co-dancers, lest they be outshined...  I mean, as if!   Ahem.  Miaow.  Sorry.  YAH.

 

Talking of godlike beauty, Andre Rieu – HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh, I amuse myself, at least.  It’s his hair, I think – there’s a particularly satisfying comic effect that you get from bouffant locks on a receding hairline.  Anyway, Andre had a good old fiddle whilst Natalie and Brendan did some rumba writhing, before he revealed an army of terrifying bridesmaid automatons, equipped with string instruments you just KNOW could turn into machine guns at a moment’s notice.  It’s a Dr Who plot waiting to happen, if it hasn’t already.

 

And that was that – an excellent week of dancing and NO BRUCE!  Let’s have another Claude and Tess yelp of joy, shall we?  WHOOP!  Next week, Bruce returns and we head to Wembley - cue major timing issues and utterly ridiculous VTs about... oh I dread to think.  Who’ll be fired from the Russell Grant memorial cannon this year?  My money’s on Richard.  Or perhaps Aliona, who's back for a pro-dance, with several weeks of supressed narcissism to impose on us all.  Hooray!  In the meantime, you know the drill, keeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep... innit.