2017 - Week 9 - Blackpool

Oh Jonnie, to quote Jan Delay (which will mean nothing to anyone bar the hardcorest of Eurovision/German pop fans, and me and my mate Vix who appeared on telly at Düsseldorf 2011, dancing to Jan’s ‘hit’ of that name. Oh that’s right, I appeared at Eurovision, have I not mentioned that before? *innocent face* Yeah yeah Jan’s great. My favourite Deutsch-funk-hop star by a mile).

ANYWAY, back to SCD and whilst I’m super sad to see Jonnie go before Mollie or Gemma (in spite of Aljaz/tens), it has to be said that Jonnie and Oti’s space-age tango wasn’t great, in spite of his mun and guyliner.  Less futuristic cosmic extravaganza and more 'check out this game Snakes on my cool Nokia mobile phone'. All a bit too cardboard sci-fi, really, not that that’s Jonnie or Oti’s fault. So bye Jonnie and please let me give you MASSIVO props to your achievement here - his disability was pretty much forgotten on the dance floor, other than when it was briefly remembered to marvel at the way he moved.  And he seems such a lovely guy.  Deserving of our Oti, for sure.  Great signing - thanks the prod team.

Fewer thanks for the show though.  God it was a stinker.  The dances were one non-event after another, brought low by shoddy props and additional dancers, until Alex pulled out a competent if mildly forgettable quickstep and Gorks wore some spangly pants, then we got to hear Ride On Time (Rrrr-rrrrr-rrrrriiiiiiide on time) and watch the insides of Katya’s brain tip out revealing a mass of giant clocks (I said CLOCKS), day-glo rave and crimped bleached hair extensions.  That was... special.

I’m honestly half-tempted to leave the blog there, such was the shoddy nature of the rest. (But I won’t, OBVIOUSLY.)  It’s a perennial Blackpool problem this.  The slebs are knackered at this point, the dancefloor is too large for most dances (make ‘em all quickstep, I say) and the whole thing’s been overly hyped by an opening VT which is essentially a masterclass in (what I assume to be) dated Northern seaside clichés.  They’d be better off playing the glorious Everyday Is Like Sunday video (that is if Morrissey hasn’t got himself banned from national television by saying something which jumps the shark even by his recent declarations).

It was poor Debbie got the Blackpool brunt (and dance-off reward), being forced to samba as part of a Spice Girl tribute act, playing Geri in a Union Jack beach towel.  Again, not her fault - she samba-ed fine and might have been marvellous in a non-Spice samba that could have been as overblown and camp plus full of feathers and Gio in Anton’s sequined slacks and mariachi sleeves, AND still used up the dregs of Ruth’s wig budget.

Costume-wise, Mollie lucked out - she looked divine in her gold flapper dress and headband. Shame her routine was only 30% charleston and 70% AJ hoisting her inner thighs around his waist, arms, back and face - oh well, at least that was another opportunity for Darcey to have a pop at her wobbly core (I’d forfeit a core for her stomach, mwahaha like I have a core).

Kevin’s Strictly Ballroom fantasy fell a bit flat too - the first sign was when they stuck him and Susan on Death Slot Second.  I love the Strictly Ballroom film and I love Susan but this rendition was a bit little Scottish lady does some stamping and flamenco arms and a fair amount of waiting, whilst Kevin leapt about like a half-Spanish, half-Grimsby Michael Flatley.  We’ve seen Kevin do OTT paso doblés in his time, but this was no Susanna Reid channelling the passion with which she loathes Piers Morgan flounceathon.  

Still, they survived so think of Calman’s voting power!  Though Susan herself looked utterly confused when she heard she was through. She even threw an involuntarily sneery look at the camera: like, “what are you guys even thinking voting for us you complete tubes.”  But the cheers in the room were massive.

Also massive, Davood’s boobs.

Indeed so massive that they formed the main focus of his James Bond paso.  I don’t personally recall Bond wearing a sheer skin-tight sweater as he parachuted into the Olympic Stadium with the Queen, but if that was Nadiya’s interpretation, so be it.  Davood is slowly improving, which is pleasing - I don't think he'll sneak past Alexandra, Susan or Gemma but he might fell Debbie.

Oh Gemma!  I’ve forgotten to discuss Gemma again, haven’t I? 

So Sunday. 

I jest - but only just.  Thing is, I'm just indifferent to Gemma - I can't get irritated or excited by her performances - even when Aljaz turns up in tangerine shirt and tie.  This one was... argh, I just can't remember it.  There were tens and the tangerine, and there was...  Dunno.  I'm sure it was fine.  Gemma certainly doesn't deserve to go very soon, but I don't look forward to her dances very much.  Sorry.

What else did we get then?  Sunday brought a Northern Soul routine featuring Anton, of course.  Well I suppose he might well have been around at the time. (*Checks Wikipedia*, *notes he would have been a toddler*. *And isn't Northern.*)  Here's my advice if you missed that one and are heading to the iPlayer - close your eyes and enjoy the cracking soundtrack.  You’ll only be missing Brendan and Neil in ratty mullet wigs, some random break-dancers, the sleb girls doing the robot in Britpop t-shirts (WTAF), no sign of the sleb boys, some bracesography (trouser-holders, not teeth) and, - if that weren’t enough to exhaust your patience - an Anton solo in which he is lifted aloft like Jesus.  Where’s Jarvis Cocker to do a wiggle bum protest when you need him?

Mind you, it was better than the Cirque de No-leil we were dished up on Saturday, which I found very weird, and not in a good way.  Far too much going on, none of which made its mark - bar Oti in a vertical striped polo neck/cropped top, making her 99% boob.  I honestly feared she might topple over.

The best dance was probably the judges’ entrance on Sunday.  After Shirley arrived half an hour late for her Saturday entrance, chuckling merrily at her own tardiness, Bruno was dispatched to firmly take her arm and drag accompany her on in a timely fashion.

We got some 'we're so contractually obliged to do this'-promotional work, of course.  Blackpool is essentially 'Old Timers' week, so we were treated to Tears for Fears - going pro-dancer free.  Hellooooo, know your audience guys!  And no, it's not original fans wanting a replica performance of Everybody Wants To Rule The World straight out the eighties, only fronted by wrinklier versions of the band.  Mind you, I'm not convinced Brendan and Dianne cracking out a dramz-atic rumba to TFF would have been preferable, so...  *sighs*  

Props, however, to professional professionals Alfie Bowe and Michael Ball, who couldn't have given the Blackpool public a bigger collective fan-boner if they had tried.  Talk about giving the audience what it wanted (*coughs*clichés*coughs*).  They sang some old skool croone up at the back whilst out front a few of the pros birthed the Fred’n’Gingest ballroom you could possibly imagine - feather muffs, swishy silk skirts, Anton doing that glazed smile - all present and correct.  It wasn't in the slightest bit original, but it was highly enjoyable and perfectly pitched, so even this old cynic watched it through.  Michael Ball 2019 booking assured?  Tick.  (Who am I kidding?  MB's on the roster until 2050, his contract signed in blood.)

What else?  Someone sneezed glitter on to Tess's dress, but it looked fine.  Claudia, by her own admission, was in a leopard print nightgown.   Peter Kay misjudged the T&C hysteria for a moment to plug his tour - Claude looked rightly FUMING - and Lenny Henry misjudged the T&C hysteria by seeming a bit tired.  Also, amazing woman JK Rowling was in the audience.  I don't have many celebrity role models, but if I had to pick a sleb I admire, she's the one.  Her Twitter game is *kisses fingers*.  

Oke doke, back down South now, to something called the Paso Doble-athon.  God-Help-Us-All-athon.  Keeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep etc.