Strictly Finals

Tags

Anton du Beke, bangles.., Barrowland, Baubles, Bermuda beads, Border Terrier, Bruce Forsyth, Brucie, bugle beads, Christmas tree Trafalgar Square, Craig Revel Horwood, Denise van Outen, Dennistoun Palais, eminenece grise, Frank Sinatra, Fred and Ginger, Fred Astaire, Kismet, Laocoon, Latin moves, Louis Smith, Mayans, Mother Shipton, Rita Hayworth, soothsayer, Strictly Finals, Tess Daly, Vincent Simone

As the Finals approach again this year, here’s what happened in a certain

household two years ago.  Is it really so long since all these characters

operated in combination?  Sir Bruce and Artem have gone.  Oh well, the

glitz goes on…

 

Brassie and Cosmo’s Strictly Finals party was in full swing.  Brassie

had found a Frank Sinatra CD in Help the Ancient and was playing

Baubles, bangles, hear how they jing, jinga-linga to encourage

everyone to get into a sparkly mood. Certainly, tonight was

Kismet.

Most of the guests were downing bubbly and becoming increasingly

effervescent and aerated. Ginevra was ensconced in the prime

viewing position in front of the large plasma screen.  She was

cheerful and enjoying her favourite Dewlap gin, with very little tonic.

Everyone was wearing enough ruffles, fringing, Bermuda and bugle

beads to keep Julien Macdonald in ecstasies till actual Doomsday.

Their scintillation would have been sufficient to have illuminated the

Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square.

Sonia arranged a sweepstake for the guests to wager on the winner

of the coveted glitter ball.  Of course, she was not permitted to enter

since she would have had an unfair advantage as a professional

medium.  When the twins tried to elicit a clue from her, she merely

raised her eyebrow, in a Vincent Simone enigmatic expression.

Maybe she did know something and might have been more astrologically

in touch than the Mayans, but she had a greater affinity with Mother

Shipton than any South American soothsayer.  That could have been

applicable to her Latin moves too.  The twins turned away in

embarrassment when she tried to shimmy and they consequently

tripped over Andy, the annoyingly ubiquitous Border Terrier, so he

was banished and gated in the kitchen.

Tiger-Lily and Scheherezade supported Louis Smith and defended

their choice hotly when teased that they were merely responding to

his lack of a costume.

Ginevra, the eminence grise, favoured Anton and had to be told that

he was not a contender. But he dances like Fred Astaire, she

retorted.  When the girls explained which dancers were finalists, she

decided to bet on Kimberley, as she thought she looked a little like

Rita Hayworth.

Once she had her glass re-filled, she didn’t care which programme

she was about to watch.

Carrie supported Dani; this was more to do with the dark pony’s

Italian partner, however.

I decided to opt for Denise, as I felt sorry for her lack of support.

She had been subject to some bad luck owing to costume

malfunctions and had covered her professional partner’s mental

blank, mid-performance.

Da-da-da-da-da-da-da: everyone was riveted and crowded round the

screen.  Bruce grinned: Nice to see you; to see you…

Just as everyone shouted Nice in return, there was a fragmentation

of the picture.  Two words appeared: No Signal. Tess’ lovely face,

usually a mask of tolerance while Brucie lifted her leg (though he was

more like the dog round a lamp-post) disappeared.

Oh no! everyone exclaimed. What’s wrong?

Cosmo was dispatched to the fuse box in the kitchen.  Carrying a

bowl of floating tea-lights, he nearly tripped on the threshold as he

tried to negotiate the child gate that had been attached to the door,

to deter the excitable Andy. A veritable Laocoon of tangled and

chewed cables was all that remained of the Christmas tree lights,

once they had been dragged from the hall.

Brassie! he shouted.

She managed to feel her way out of the sitting room and stumbled

into the scene of canine chaos.  So much for thoroughbreds and

champion breeding.

There was no fuse wire in the electrical box, so Cosmo was also in

the doghouse- a destination with which he was only too familiar.

Everyone decided to hot-foot it to Sonia’s place, which was the

nearest viewing possibility.  Difficult in crystal-encrusted stilettos.

It was only when the glitter ball had been awarded that someone

realised that Ginevra was missing.  There had been nothing

problematic with her electric wheelchair, but everyone had forgotten

her in their eagerness to hiss Craig Revel Horwood’s initial

pronouncements.

When Cosmo rushed into the sitting room with a borrowed torch, he

found her fast asleep and perfectly warm under her tartan blanket.

She had consumed the rest of the bottle of Dewlap– neat, by all

accounts.  She was alert instantly and wanted to know if she had

won the sweepstake.  Cosmo lied and presented her with an

uncorked bottle as a prize and she went back to sleep, happily

dreaming of Fred and Ginger and the days when she used to dance

at the Dennistoun Palais and Barrowland in Glasgow, with her first

love, Gianbattista Pomodoro, Carrie’s grandfather, before he

married Jean Waddell in 1946.

But who had really won?

Shakin’ That Ass

Tags

Betty Grable, Botafogo, Bruno Tonioli, Claudia Winkelman, Craig Revel Horwood, dance-off, Darcy Bussell, Duchess of Cambridge, Elton John, gigolo, glitter ball, It Takes Two, Len's lens, maracas, Pasha, pickle my walnuts, Pippa Middleton, Pixie Lott, promenade position, rear spoiler, Renault, rigor mortis, Shimmy, sprung floor, Strictly, Tess Daly, twerking, varifocals

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 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.

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.

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!

Nice to see you; to see you- NICE!

Tags

Border Terrier, Brucie, Craig Revel Horwood, Dordrecht, Heat magazine, Jenny Packham, Johan Huibers, Lisa Riley, Louis Smith, Paxman, Strictly Come Dancing, Wembley

The whole St Swithun day prognostication thingy seems irrelevant as

it appears to rain incessantly whatever the season.  A Dutchman

named Johan Huibers built an ark in Dordrecht, complete with plastic

animals.  Well, I suppose they would float in any deluge.

Such meteorological topics did not interest Tiger-Lily, nor

Scheherezade, who were caught up with their £40 sweepstake

winnings from Brassie and Cosmo’s Strictly party. They had

accurately predicted that Louis Smith would win the Strictly Come

Dancing finals and, being altruistic girls, they donated part of their

winnings to their favourite charity, Curs in Crisis.  This was in spite of

Andy, the destructive Border Terrier having chewed the Christmas

tree lights and having caused mayhem at the party by plunging everyone

into darkness at the opening of the show.

Tiger called in to see how her grandmother, Ginevra was, after

having been abandoned the previous evening, when everyone ran to

Sonia’s house, in order not to miss the opening group dance by the

professionals.  In actual fact, once Cosmo had woken the wheelchair-bound

guest, she had been refreshed and then no one could get her to stop partying

until 2am.

Tiger’s mum, Carrie had eventually put her mother-in-law to bed as

the carer was off duty.

As mum was busy helping Ginevra with her morning ablutions, Tiger

had been left relatively unsupervised and she had ‘Googled’ Louis

Smith.  Almost immediately a very saucy photograph of the said

Olympic gymnast had popped up and he was not wearing anything at

all. Tiger was intrigued.  She was frustrated by the strategically

placed champagne bottle.  Apparently it had been a feature from Heat

magazine -a publication that would never be afforded entry to

Nutwood Cottage.  She immediately printed it off and Blu-tacked it

to her wardrobe’s inner door.

Imagine Carrie’s volcanic eruption when she discovered the same

indecent image on hanging up her daughter’s beaded Jenny

Packham dress later that morning.  (Tiger kept on having to correct

her mother.  It was Packham and not Packman.  Carrie should have

realised that Jeremy was not into bugle beads and fringing.  At least,

she didn’t think so.  But Paxman was different again.  It was very

confusing.)

Whatever.  Carrie sustained a shock as sensational as that

experienced by Craig Revel Horwood– and indeed the rest of the

nation’s viewers- when Lisa Riley did the splits at Wembley.

It was painful to think that her sweet, innocent Tiger of tender years

had downloaded such an image.

Gyles!  she called and then thought better of involving him.

The bedroom door was open and she jumped as a voice asked: Did

you call, Mrs Brewer-Mead?

It was Mrs Hatch-Warren, her cleaner.  She had let herself in with the

key she had been given.  Carrie was so overwhelmed that she had

forgotten that she had asked her to come in early to do some

ironing and other chores.

Shall I start by vacuuming Tiger’s bedroom? she inquired.

No!  I mean yes. Eh…  Carrie turned red and it wasn’t a hot flush.

Are you all right, Mrs Brewer-Mead?  the kindly cleaner asked

solicitously.

Carrie gulped.  Mrs Hatch-Warren, I know that you are a

grandmother to a fifteen year old girl.  Well, do you mind me asking

if this is normal?

She opened the wardrobe door.

Ooooh!  I’d say it was more than normal.  I’d say it was b*****

fantastic!  Mrs Hatch-Warren was from Yorkshire where this rather

crude modifier was in constant use and was considered an intensifier,

rather than being tinged with any offence.

So you think I should ignore it?  Carrie was prepared to take the older

woman’s advice.

Ignore it!  No, not at all.  I should come in here every day and have a

good look myself.  Fab-u-lous!  It’s not just Len who would give him a

10!

Mrs Hatch-Warren seemed energised and did all the ironing in

record time, but kept finding excuses to do more dusting in Tiger’s

bedroom.

Carrie was so shocked that she forgot to give the cleaner her

Christmas tip.  But the Yorkshire gran-with-attitude didn’t seem to

notice.  She felt she had had a huge bonus and spent the rest of the

day repeating Brucie’s catch-phrase: Nice to see you- to see you

NICE!

 

Strictly Finals

Tags

Anton du Beke, Barrowland, Border Terrier, Bruce Forsyth, Craig Revel Horwood, Denise van Outen, Dennistoun Palais, Frank Sinatra, Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, Julien Macdonald, Kismet, Laocoon, Louis Smith, Mayan, Mother Shipton, Rita Hayworth, Tess Daly, Vincent Simone

The world didn’t end yesterday, so maybe the Mayans weren’t so

clever after all.  It was going to be curtains for some of the Strictly

contestants, however, in a few hours.

Brassie and Cosmo’s Strictly Finals party was in full swing.  Brassie

had found a Frank Sinatra CD in Help the Ancient and was playing

Baubles, bangles, hear how they jing, jinga-linga to encourage

everyone to get into a sparkly mood. Certainly, tonight was

Kismet.

Most of the guests were downing bubbly and becoming increasingly

effervescent and aerated. Ginevra was ensconced in the prime

viewing position in front of the large plasma screen.  She was

cheerful and enjoying her favourite Dewlap gin, with very little tonic.

Everyone was wearing enough ruffles, fringing, Bermuda and bugle

beads to keep Julien Macdonald in ecstasies till actual Doomsday.

Their scintillation would have been sufficient to have illuminated the

Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square.

Sonia arranged a sweepstake for the guests to wager on the winner

of the coveted glitter ball.  Of course, she was not permitted to enter

since she would have had an unfair advantage as a professional

medium.  When the twins tried to elicit a clue from her, she merely

raised her eyebrow, in a Vincent Simone enigmatic expression.

Maybe she did know something and might have been more in touch

than the Mayans, but she had a greater affinity with Mother Shipton than any

South American soothsayer.  That could have been applicable to her Latin

moves too.  The twins turned away in embarrassment when she

tried to shimmy and they consequently tripped over Andy, the annoyingly

ubiquitous Border Terrier, so he was banished and gated in the

kitchen.

Tiger-Lily and Scheherezade supported Louis Smith and defended

their choice hotly when teased that they were merely responding to

his lack of a costume.

Ginevra, the eminence grise, favoured Anton and had to be told that

he was not a contender. But he dances like Fred Astaire, she

retorted.  When the girls explained which dancers were finalists, she

decided to bet on Kimberley, as she thought she looked a little like

Rita Hayworth.

Once she had her glass re-filled, she didn’t care which programme

she was about to watch.

Carrie supported Dani; this was more to do with the dark pony’s

Italian partner, however.

I decided to opt for Denise, as I felt sorry for her lack of support.  She

had been subject to some bad luck owing to costume malfunctions

and had covered her professional partner’s mental blank, mid-

performance.

Da-da-da-da-da-da-da: everyone was riveted and crowded round the

screen.  Bruce grinned: Nice to see you; to see you…

Just as everyone shouted Nice in return, there was a fragmentation

of the picture.  Two words appeared: No Signal. Tess’ lovely face,

usually a mask of tolerance while Brucie lifted her leg, disappeared.

Oh no! everyone exclaimed. What’s wrong?

Cosmo was dispatched to the fuse box in the kitchen.  Carrying a

bowl of floating tea-lights, he nearly tripped on the threshold as he

tried to negotiate the child gate that had been attached to the door,

to deter the excitable Andy. A veritable Laocoon of tangled and

chewed cables was all that remained of the Christmas tree lights,

once they had been dragged from the hall.

Brassie! he shouted.

She managed to feel her way out of the sitting room and stumbled

into the scene of canine chaos.  So much for thoroughbreds and

champion breeding.

There was no fuse wire in the electrical box, so Cosmo was also in

the doghouse- a destination with which he was only too familiar.

Everyone decided to hot-foot it to Sonia’s place, which was the

nearest viewing possibility.  Difficult in crystal-encrusted stilettos.

It was only when the glitter ball had been awarded that someone

realised that Ginevra was missing.  There had been nothing

problematic with her electric wheelchair, but everyone had forgotten

her in their eagerness to hiss Craig Revel Horwood’s initial

pronouncements.

When Cosmo rushed into the sitting room with a borrowed torch, he

found her fast asleep and perfectly warm under her tartan blanket.

She had consumed the rest of the bottle of Dewlap– neat, by all

accounts.  She was alert instantly and wanted to know if she had

won the sweepstake.  Cosmo lied and presented her with an

uncorked bottle as a prize and she went back to sleep, happily

dreaming of Fred and Ginger and the days when she used to dance

at the Dennistoun Palais and Barrowland in Glasgow, with her first

love, Gianbattista Pomodoro, Carrie’s grandfather, before he

married Jean Waddell in 1946.

But who had really won?