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?

Gangnam Style

Tags

Bermuda crystals, Christingle, Donner and Blitzen, Gagnam style, Glasgow airport, Julien Macdonald, Lisa Riley, polenta cake, Sarah Lund, The Bank Of Dad

Carrie looked frazzled already as she ordered her medium frappucino with a hazelnut shot.  It was only the 3^rd of December.

It’s a nightmare, she said, sticking a fork into our shared slice of polenta cake.  (We were trying to be disciplined, given the calorific onslaught about to be unleashed on us.) I’ve got ten to fit round our dining room table, she sighed.

But you usually have a dozen.

Ah, but Luca and Morag are not coming this year.  They said they were worried about potential burst pipes and being snowbound for the duration at Glasgow airport. Magda has been invited to Bric-a-Brac for a week, so we have managed to get a temporary carer for Gyles’ mother.  We are collecting the old girl mid-morning, in time for her matutinal Dewlap.

But doesn’t that make 11 for dinner? I asked.

Oh, we’re including Sonia as she is on her own.  She’s offered to bring a Christmas pudding.

Quite a crowd then.

Yes, I hope no one tramps on the pugs. Ginevra said that she had her first two cards today- from France.  One was from Ola and Jean-Paul.  Apparently she is pregnant.

That was quick work, I said.

Well, you know the French.. Anyway, Ola bought a lovely antique berceau in a vide grenier and is sewing the drapes and bedding for it.  The other card was from Victoria, Gyles’ sister.  She is still making a fortune out of renovating mirrors and de-worming old furniture.

Cards-huh! I exclaimed.  The queues are horrendous in the Post Office since they charge according to size, as well as weight.  No one knows how much to put on the envelopes.

I know.  Size matters.  Parcels are extortionate too. My mother sent us a huge one packed with hand-knitted sweaters for all the family- including the pugs.  Tiger will be thrilled as her grandma told me that she made her one in a Sarah Lund pattern.  The trouble was that I had to collect her card from the Post Office as she had put insufficient postage on it and so they charged me a pound.  I challenged it, but they pointed out that she had re-used a couple of stamps that had been unfranked and said that she could have been prosecuted.

Really? Well,, it’s more difficult to steam them off now that they’ve put those little flaps on them that tear when you try to peel them off, I commiserated.  But, talking of Tiger, I saw her with Scheherezade in A La Mode at the weekend.  I went in for a festive mince pie and a glass of bubbly and there they were, touching all the Julien Macdonald Budget line, based on ex-Strictly costumes.  The staff looked rather anxious as they were spreading icing sugar everywhere and touching all the Bermuda crystals.

Oh, The Bank of Dad gave them an advance based on their grandparents’ forthcoming Christmas cheques.  They wanted tulle illusions to wear to the end of term party.

Will they be allowed?

Yes. Even the teachers have been in and cleared them out of some lines. The Lisa Riley numbers for the fuller figure went first, but not the yellow ones.  It’s a difficult colour.  Tiger and Sherry spied on the staff at lunchtime and saw them rehearsing a big gangnam number, which was supposed to be a surprise for the kids.

Hey! I reckon we are the sexy ladies, the classy girls who know how to enjoy the freedom of a cup of coffee! I remarked, rolling my wrists around in that ridiculous way, as if I was heading down the local bridleways at a gallop.

Aren’t those the lyrics of the song?  

Yes, but I don’t see any ‘cool guys who one-shot their coffee before it cools’, I added, looking around Costamuchamoulah’s clientele.  Actually, it’s a pity that the lyrics don’t influence the girls to cover themselves, to look more sexy than ‘the girls who bare all.’

I agree.  You’d think that the freezing temperatures would encourage them to don some thermals under the flounces and furbelows.  Ugg boots and netting have never done it for me.  Well, must dash to Tesco’s before they run out of oranges for the Christingle service.  Did you want to come over on Christmas afternoon, if you and your husband are going to be on your own?

Thank you, no.  You know what he’s like.  The last drinks party we went to he muttered to me:  I’m a nonentity-get me out of here! I licked the last of the polenta crumbs off the knife.

 Okay!  See you then. Must get a bottle from Pop My Cork! for the boys’ form teacher.  Ciao!  And off she went, dashing into the street like Donner und Blitzen.

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