Why the BBC’s new hit Strictly has the X Factor
AT LAST it has come to pass: reality TV that is not rotten. Step forward Strictly Come Dancing — or quickstep forward or cha cha cha if you like, it all works for me.
Given the choice on a Saturday night between The X Factor’s Simon Cowell attempting the lifelong destruction of a human being’s selfesteem — and that’s just the way he treats his fellow judges — and the gentle world of the waltz, and I’ll take Strictly Come Dancing any day.
The world it leads you into, a world of elegance and courtesy, was enough even to make me start liking Natasha Kaplinsky, at least for an hour.
Back on her Breakfast TV sofa, without that fabulous dress, Natasha looked like a frumpy old mother hen. But in sequins, she was a knockout.
As I flicked between Strictly and The X Factor, it struck me that the latter embodies everything nasty about our society — the bitching, the insatiable quest for celebrity, the cult of youth, the love of the superficial and the supremacy of the bully.
Of course, in Strictly people are judged and thrown off the show, but it is a different kind of reality.
It takes you by the hand and leads you into a world of grace. At a time when we are uncertain of our roles, it is refreshing to have them defined for us: boy grabs girl and they dance their hearts out.
PART of the magic of the show is in the tradition, the way a man takes a woman’s hand, grips her tightly then leads her around the dance floor, totally in control.
At the risk of being howled down by the sisterhood, I admit that it’s rather lovely, every once in a while, for a girl to be led by a man. And yes, it’s very sexy to feel his hand in the small of your back, or his thigh between yours, steering your body in a quickstep.
Not that the waltz transforms everyone, of course. Motoring journalist Quentin Willson was the first to be voted off Strictly, and little wonder. Dancing the cha cha cha, he looked like he was chasing chickens. And TV gardener Diarmuid Gavin looked as if he was pushing a wheelbarrow of dung. I can’t remember when I’ve laughed so much as I did watching Quentin and Diarmuid dance. But Strictly doesn’t attempt to poke fun at people. It’s good-natured and gentle. Even when two of the judges scored the hapless Quentin only one point out of ten, there was no viciousness. There is a wonderful absence of malice on this show. It’s like a breath of fresh air — and no wonder millions tuned in last Saturday. The beauty of the spectacle of Strictly is so great it even veiled Carol Vorderman’s ambition — well, for a few minutes anyway. And just like the Strictly hoofers, I’ve always had a soft spot for flowers in a woman’s hair, ever since Dad told me about the first time he danced with Mum. It was the first time they met. He looked across the dance hall in postwar Perth, Western Australia, and thought she’d walked off the set of High Society. She was wearing a blue dress the colour of sapphires. It was only when they danced he realised she had fresh frangipanis in her hair. It’s been his favourite flower ever since.
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