Result must remain strictly confidential
CAN THERE be a soul in the land who doesn’t know that Strictly and the Strictly Results Show are filmed on the same day? Yes, Tess, Claudia and the judges emerge in sparkling new outfits. Yes, there’s a brand new welcome and a reprise of past performances. But in reality, the whole juddering juggernaut is accomplished in a single inhumanly long sitting on Saturday.
This “two for the price of one” technique began when the late lamented Sir Bruce Forsyth, in his 80s, couldn’t face schlepping to Elstree two nights on the trot. The practice endured for reasons of streamlining and economy, and became wholly dependent on the goodwill of strangers.
Think of the multitudes relied upon to keep shtum.An honour-bound code of secrecy was kept by audiences, cab drivers, caterers, cleaners, scene-shifters, hair and make-up artists, the entire crew and a colossal cohort of journalists. It was as if there was a sacred trust, kept until the ungodly moment when a mole went whistleblowing to Strictly superfan Dave Thorp who spilled the beans on his Twitter stream The Strictly Spoiler at 11.30pm on Saturday night, ruining the crescendo of anticipation like a giant party pooper.
THE team are scurrying to identify the source. When they winkle out the baddie responsible for trampling all over the crisis-gripped nation’s fun, they should be hoisted onto the fourth plinth in Trafalgar Square and forced to watch Ann Widdecombe murder a pasodoble while the crowd pelts them with stale bath buns. I recall the agony of this omertà from my 2013 stint. Think about it. You’re exiled from cha-cha-cha heaven. Yet all through Sunday, enthusiasts are congratulating you and asking about your dance for the forthcoming week. You want to blurt out the awful truth: “They’ve booted me off! I’ll never rip James Jordan’s Velcro open again! I won’t worry about slipping and skidding into Sir Brucie and sending him flying ever again. My heart is broken!”
You just can’t. You haven’t even revealed the truth to your family. There are tears behind your rictus smirk. You know that in a matter of hours, when the results show hits the screen, your downfall will be hellishly revealed. Nine years on, I’m still smarting.