‘Emma asked me to bring my Bond costume home’
In his exclusive weekly report, the actor reveals the thrill of being 007 and sheer physical toll of Strictly Come Dancing
I’ve pulled something. Not sure what. It’s a muscle I suppose, somewhere in the front of my shoulder. Somewhere I didn’t know I had a muscle. I pulled it again yesterday. It was agony – the physio stuck acupuncture needles in me and then strapped me up. Karen’s lost a toenail. Her bunions are the size of new potatoes. What is this? An expedition to the North Pole? No. It’s week four of Strictly Come Dancing.
Injuries are par for the course, apparently. No one tells you. Just like no one tells you what it’s like standing there on Sunday night waiting for your fate to be decided. Well, Bill Bailey did tell me – but I think he told me in that way that maybe women tell other women about childbirth; they hold back. I have heard my wife talk about giving birth and she always leaves out the phrase “screaming agony” in the same way as Bill left out the words “unexpectedly terrifying”.
We got through last week and it was a huge relief, but you feel so anxious for the couples that do the dance-off. It’s a bit like being the families of the contestants in The Hunger Games.
I did enjoy being 007 for One Night Only. I liked my costume, which my wife discreetly inquired if I could bring home. This week, however, I’m in a huge, ruffled blouse for the Samba, which we are dancing to the Macarena.
I have waved goodbye to peace of mind – the earworm tune has moved into my brain and redecorated, and I shall just have to live with it. It’s time to torment whole new bits of my body.
I have to try and move in at least four ways at once: heels, toes and ankles one way, hips and bum another, midriff and sternum bouncing and arms back and forth. The first time I tried it, I looked like I was having a seizure. I feel it may even come to that, but after a few more goes I appear slightly less berserk.
I have even managed to squeeze a twerk into the routine. It hurts, but I’ve managed it. A few weeks ago I didn’t even know what twerking meant. I’m trying to channel the sexy bartender from Mamma Mia! but it’s coming out more like Topol from Fiddler on the Roof. What can you do if your genes are Eastern Europe Jewish ones? I’m a pensionable Geordie for God’s sake – and I have to try and find a way of grinding my hips instead of my teeth.
I am only now settling into what this gig entails. Karen told me at the start, this is a marathon, not a sprint. I’ve never done a marathon and now I know why. Some of the other contestants have day jobs. I have no idea how they are managing. My admiration knows no bounds. I’m grateful that I have nothing else on but this. I’m grateful that I can get home and immediately run a hot bath and pour half a bag of Epsom salts into it. I am so grateful that my body is holding out. Just. I grieve for Robert Webb leaving us, but he was sent a message by his body: stop now. He was heroic in taking on this challenge, and doubly heroic for knowing when to call time. I salute him.
And I may even be feeling like I might, possibly, be able to slightly dance. Just a little bit. Onwards we go, towards the summit of Saturday and the terrors of Sunday. Wish us luck. We really need it. And don’t forget: Vote Greg. You know it makes sense. I don’t think the wife is going to want me to bring this particular costume home.
Strictly Come Dancing is on Saturday on BBC One at 7pm