The nation has been waiting since last Christmas for the next serving of Strictly Come Dancing. And with good reason – it’s utter drivel.
Things started badly as I sat down to watch it when I spilled my Müller yoghurt down my new pyjama set from Primark. Things got even worse when they I tried to wipe it off with a tea towel that I’d used previously to bleach the worktops. It’s not even like I can take it back to the shop, even though I have the receipt.
So then Brucie came on telly. He read some ‘jokes’ off the autocue and they were shit. The audience still laughed until they couldn’t breathe though, that’s what they do. They also boo when someone gives constructive criticism and whoop and holler like some deranged Americans when another ‘celebrity’ is announced. By this point, the yoghurt on my pyjama top had dried and I was able to scrape it off with my fingernail.
The nation held its breath as each ‘celebrity’ was paired up with a dancing professional. Each celebrity then feigned their delight at being paired up with someone, even though they had practiced this many times during rehearsals.
At this point, I thought about having a cup of tea, but I’d realised that I’d run out of milk so I went down the Spar to buy some. While I was there, I treated myself to a Turkish Delight, which went down a treat.
By the time I’d come home, Strictly Come Dancing had finished and I was overjoyed.