Strictly Come Dancing has been a mainstay of my winter Saturday nights, since the series started. It’s a pleasure I refuse to feel guilty about: the music, the fantastic and at times ridiculous costumes, the romance, the passion, the theatre, the great looking men: a campest of camp fests, entertainment that grew out of the golden days of variety, what’s not to love?
I got Mum and I tickets to the Strictly tour in Belfast (a rather self serving present) and it was wonderful. A total cheese fest of innuendo and glitter! Even Kate Thornton, playing the part of Sir Bruce and Tess, who typically annoys me, was witty and charming and had a dress to die for.
For me this Strictly season was all about Harry Judd, the twenty something drummer from boy band McFly, who rivalled only the bad boy of ballroom Brendan Cole (and of course Patrick ‘Dirty Dancing’ Swayze) as the man to take me by the hand and twirl me round the dance floor. Talent rivals intelligence as one of the greatest aphrodisiacs.
The singers on the tour were phenomenal, the pro dancers heart-stopping, and Harry again crowned Prince of the Ballroom (thanks on no small part to my endless text voting- profits go to Sport Relief) was all the more mesmerising in the flesh.
We sang, we cheered, I texted and wolf whistled. We managed to get out of the Odyssey car park in under a record breaking ten minutes, I came home to Mum’s: to wine and the bed I sleep best in.
As Friday nights in Belfast go, this was one of my best in quite a while.