So it’s ciao for now to lovely lovely Alison (and Laura's turn to leave the sweepstake). If Judy is staying, and the Brutish public is currently dictating that she must, then I suppose it was, by pure default, time for joyful bezza mates Ali² to very sadly leave us. *sigh* Alison’s charleston was actually less energised and infectious than her fabulous wafty American Smooth (which blinded Aljaž), but it still makes me sad to see such a happy partnership go. The competition did really benefit from Alison's joie de vivre and raucous cackle. And Aljaž. The competition always benefits from Aljaž.
And also, whilst we had already learnt from la Riley that big girls can dance, it was still always impressive to see the costume-based architectural work in play to keep Alison's Hammonds in check - this week Wardrobe even dared some intra-boob chiffon! (Clearly the accompanying lapel detail was all the more structurally important.)
On the subject of wrangling breasts (of course, I mean, what else), I actually think Caroline's front was to blame for her appearance in the Dance Off. That greying knotted knicker-elastic over-bodice was one of the worst things I've ever seen on Strictly (and we all know my feelings about Holly Valance's high-waisted shorts). But seriously, who managed to persuade Caroline that a string vest-bra and back tat was the best platform for a romantic waltz? Pasha's powers are strong, but he can only do so much.
I suppose it was also quite a competitive week for snoozesome, sorry, romantic ballroom, so the usually flawless Caroline had some more direct competition. Sunetra pulled out another ballroom charmer - a lovely foxtrot - and was lucky that her bodice had been attacked by a Swarovski glitter gun, rather than a silly string shooter. (Shocking eBay party wig though.)
And then there was Mark, who managed a very competent waltz. There was actually some bodice intrigue there too - not in relation to his own bust area, which was covered by the more traditional shirt and jacket, but in relation to Karen's bodice, from which he took a massive mid-dance sniff; nestling his face for what I would considered to be a longer-than-necessary amount of time nestled between boobs in the name of ‘dance’. (I suspect your average Towie regular isn't so familiar with the non-surgically enhanced feel, so Mark was, you know, trying it out...)
The judges thought the best ballrooms were Simon's quickstep (I don't have the technical knowhow to tell you whether the skippy blur of his feet was a good thing, but I suppose the clue's in the dance name) and Pixie's foxtrot, even if the theme (a 1940s break up and make up though the medium of sewingmachineography) was a bit bizarre. Anyway, Pixie secured a Darcey Ten (means more than a Donny ten, nothing like the impact of a Craig ten), so that probably means it's time to prepare for it to piss down tens at Blackpool next week. I've warmed to Pixie, but I'm sort of on the fence with Ken Doll Trent - the way he unblinkingly stares directly into the camera at all times is creeeeeeeeeeepy. I think he might literally be a man doll.
Frankie had a less successful time of it with her samba - perhaps not helped by Kevin wearing one of those multicoloured pseudo-tribal T-shirts beloved by twenty-something Rahs at festivals, who think they're totes edgy. Frankie was still great, just not as great as she has been - so Craig was right, if pretty harsh, in drawling that it was her “worst dance yet” (before rolling his eyes and pointedly looking the other way, well, probably). At least Frankie got to take out her frustration on the donkey piñata in the artist formerly known as the Tesspit/Clauditorium (currently Ballcony).
Jake's rumba disappointed a little too - but only because of where the bar is for him, not because it was dire. Let's face it, it was a male rumba that didn't require the protection of rumba fingers (or rumba sofa) to hide behind, so that has to be a win of some sorts. I wasn't quite convinced by shiny white Lycra and flappy tie as the basis for a Sexy An Officer And A Gentleman costume, but I'm sure there's a market somewhere...
There’s definitely a market for Steve’s outfit – well, if a man of Steve’s girth is involved. He’s not the first Strictly matador with embroidered waistcoat and man-nips ahoy, gurning and chucking his guns about (and he probably won’t be the last) but why mess with a tried and tested nearly-naked formula? Though it wasn’t quite enough to detract from Ola’s glitzy astroturf bra – yet another bodice ‘triumph’ from Wardrobe.
And then there was Judy. Oh Judy. Truth is, I’m resigned to a good few more weeks of Judy now, if not for the whole shebang - it would make as much sense as her still being here seven weeks in! I don’t actually think she’ll win – the Anton juggernaut doesn’t have that much turbo-power, and once the anti-Murray vote gets consolidated around a smaller number of excellent contestants, she’ll really struggle to counteract the terrible scores. But in the meantime, I’ve decided to ignore the terribleness and just fully appreciate her enthusiasm for being there. I giggled my way right through her paso doble, as she shed her Judge Judy gown, threw Anton into jail with gusto and attempted a furious paso pout – no doubt inspired by her giant Dynasty hair. Good on ya, Judy Murray! Keep it up!
(I kind of mean it, but a bit of reverse psychology can’t hurt, can it?)
And there we have it, more or less. Not much to say on presenter fashion this week (Tess’ weird flesh cut-outs aside, everyone looked fine enough), but I do want to give a shout-out to the Bridget Jones knicks and sheer pantaloons look the lady-pros sported under their overalls. That has to be one of the most horrific jumpsuit iterations we’ve ever seen on Strictly, so *applause*. And now – to Blackpool, for donkey and spade puns galore. Keeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep, oh something Northern, fish and chips etc.
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