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And now please welcome witty and glitzy raconteuse, Candia Dixon-Stuart

and her gorgeous gigolo partner, Pasha Kovalev.  Tonight they will be

twerking to…

It was really difficult to negotiate those stairs with the strobe lighting

which flickered from the glitter ball almost inducing an epileptic fit in me.

Without my varifocals I was entirely relying on Pasha’s supporting arm to

deliver me safely to the sprung floor.

Claudia Winkleman.jpg

Claudia blinked vacantly at me from under her veritable thatch of a fringe.

Her pale lippy gave her a look of rigor mortis– more so than The Human

Ironing Board‘s dazzling smile.

The orchestra struck up our number: I Wish I Could Shimmy Like My Sister

Kate.  I truly wished that a member of our Suttonford sorority could have

stood in my shoes, whether she shared a name with The Duchess of

Cambridge, or not.  Come to think of it, Pippa would not suffer from

such self-doubt. I bet she could shake her rear spoiler to good effect.

Pippa Middleton.jpg

Maybe she will be invited on the show, if she is not too busy babysitting…

Watershed, or not, our song referenced some murdered brothel madam

called Kate Townsend- but not many people would have known that.

Oh well, I would just have to try to shake my beading to its Pixie limit.

I adopted my promenade position.

It was all over in a flash.  Pasha had to carry me over to Tess, who

brushed a few sequins from my shoulder.

Put her down, Pasha, she hissed.  You’ll do yourself an injury!

Ohhh, Candia, darling!  All the boys are going wild over sister Katie’s

style.  Unfortunately...here Bruno fell onto the floor, laughing, and

had to grab Len’s arm to hoist himself back into his chair...you are not

called Kate, are you?  Maybe you were adopted.  He pursed his lips in a

pseudo pout which anyone could tell was ironic, nay sarcastic.

Clearly I won’t be invited to one of his all-night parties with Elton John.

Darcy tried to be kind:

Wow, Candia.  You came out here and owned that floor.  Pasha gave

you a really challenging routine and you…Well, if you could develop your

core strength more and fully extend your arms, finishing your lines..She

concluded lamely, reaching for her empathetic ‘five‘.  Basically that

was the equivalent of a negative number from Craig’s arsenal.

Len Goodman 1.JPG

We were now under Len’s lens.  I think our lift was legal, but he clearly

was not going to pickle his walnuts.  Instead he reached under the table

and produced his maracas.

You see, it takes some time for the seeds to pass across to the solid wall

of the coconut shell, so you have to anticipate the beat.  He demonstrated

by waving them over his head and saying, Um cha cha; um cha cha!

It was as clear as mud.

You came out and gave it some welly, but it looked as if you were wearing

gumboots while you were at it, he added, a trifle unkindly.  It was one of

his more moody evenings, clearly.

I blushed under the fake tan.  Pasha gripped my arm.  Keep smiling, he

whispered.

To reference the original song, Craig drawled, you didn’t shimmy like a jelly

on a plate, darling.  You did, however, look as if you were in a trance.  I’ve

seen more successful posterior rotation in a Renault advert.  Your left hand

was positively splayed and your performance was nothing less than

flat-footed. Strictly-speaking, Betty Grable you were not.

I wanted to remonstrate that I hadn’t been able to get my orthotic insoles

into the high-heeled shiny slippers, but they would have thought I was just

trying for a sympathy vote, so I desisted and I will never know how I got up

those stairs, trying to shield my bouncing bosoms with my non-splayed hand

from an overhead camera which zoomed in on cleavage.

Claudia was rabbiting on about getting permission to use someone else’s

mobile.

Please, please, I mimed desperately.  I didn’t want to be in the dance-off.

Actually, I didn’t want to be there at all.  I knew my bum looked big in my

outfit.  The massive peacock feather tail didn’t help.  I’d told them peacocks

were unlucky, but they just told me to break a leg.  And I nearly did!

The scores were in.  No ‘seven’ from Len.  A predictable ‘five‘ from Darcy.

Bless.  Bruno stole a sidelong glance at Len and replicated his score.

Craig produced a card I had never seen before.  It said minus two.

He was obviously feeling generous.

Bottom of the leader board.  How embarrassing!  However, my public

may save me.  I may live to fight another day and that glamorous natural

mover who keeps scoring nines and tens may be on her way out.

I thought I was going to faint.  Pasha caught me in his arms.  It was

all worth it!

Dancing for us next week is…

But as my eyes re-focussed, I saw the shadowy outline of The Husband

bearing my morning cuppa.  He didn’t look anything like Pasha, even with

his shirt off.

What’s wrong? he asked solicitously.  You were muttering something about

botafogas.

Hmmm, I replied.  It takes two, babe.  Thanks for the tea.

He plumped up my pillows and I tried to sit up, but something was irritating

me.  I was sitting on a sequin.  Weird!

Ah well., at least when I go into Costamuchamoulah must-seen cafe I won’t

be besieged by boa-toting women shrieking, Keep Dancing!

Instead of shaking that ass, I will just keep kicking it.  And if you keep giving

me ‘likes‘ it will be the nearest thing I’ll ever experience to holding that trophy

aloft!

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