Dance Magic Dance

I think there's something wrong with me.

Approximately 1/5 of the population of the UK is currently, or has been, involved in one of the myriad of dance shows clogging up the poorly television schedules, either side of remixed Envirofone adverts, and companies creating a criminal culture by encouraging them to break into people's houses to liberate them of their unwanted 'scrap' gold. I seem to be the only person that hates this prospect. Now, I can't dance. I mean, I can dance. Of course I can. I can dance really, really badly. Although in many ways I'd like my youth back, one thing I don't miss is the feeling of self-conciousness as I wildly flail my arms around and jump on the spot, sloshing beer around onto people who, on the one hand, seemed to have absolutely no problem with looking like idiots, and on the other were old enough to know better. Dancing is one of those things you hear about; it's not something you ever expect to happen to yourself.

TV's becoming swamped with it. I thought it was bad enough with Dancing On Ice, which most of us have been involuntarily doing with hilarious consequences since New Year's Day (incidentally, please send my brother Andy your best wishes after he broke his arm by slipping over in That London the other day), not to mention these two:

Watching a thick, gobby, lobotomised yoghurt saleswoman mugging for the camera in the shadow of Brucie's chinny death mask is painful at best, clogging up the Samaritans hotline at worst. Perhaps one of the many reasons Brucie agreed to Strictly rather than Dancing On Ice is that he would act as a gritter with his rictus chin and death rattle doddery shedding dust all around. But, they've been successful, because people like watching mediocre, personality-bereft show-offs desperately seeking attention; those that don't do the dancing host the tie-in shows. In the worst knee-jerk reaction since somebody plugged Stephen Hawking into the mains when he was asleep, we're now getting three of the bastard things in one fell swoop. Ironically, it can be classified under 'variety'.

After the hilariously awful-sounding Michael Jackson grave-robbing that BBC Three had just before Christmas, the Corporation That Also Brought You Big Top have just launched So You Think You Can Dance. I covered that very question in the opening of this blog, so I won't go into that more than I need to. Shameless me-me-mes flounce around for the dubious judging abilities of That One From Eternal With The Hamster Face and That One From The Other Dancing Show Who Was Fired For Being Too Old Despite The Presence Of Brucie for a disproportionately high £100,000 prize, the bafflingly US-successful Cat Deeley (which sounds like something you put on your pet to break their confidence) hosting. I know no more than that. It sounds singularly dreadful.

Meanwhile, Britain's Favourite Lowest Common Denominator Channel, ITV1, has the next series of Dancing On Ice, hosted by Blonde Clone #6 (Holly Whatshername) and Pip Schofield (in a further attempt by the channel to destroy the reputation of a prematurely greying man), with the opportunity to watch the caved-in face of Daniella Westbrook turn into Pauline Fowler with every passing moment, and, fingers crossed, Heather Mills falling flat on her work-shy arse. As I cannot stomach even the thought of looking at any of those people without projectile-vomiting my retinas against the wall, it's not enough to tempt me to watch.

Sky One continue their inevitable path of Becoming Worse Than ITV1 with Got To Dance. It's judged by That Other One From The Pussycat Dolls Who Isn't Whatshername, some West End 'star' that I've never heard of (so therefore 'a person', as 'star' is probably taking it a tad too far), and one of the hoodies from Britain's Got Talent winners Diversity. Oh, the irony of the name. It's hosted by reality TV purgatory-dweller Davina McCall, freshly chipper after foraging for nuts.

So, there we go. Yet another national obsession forced down our retching throats. In the tradition of TV this century so far, we're told to like these things, or lump it. Soon, it'll be wall-to-wall roller disco. Next year, it'll be cross-channel sports wannabes. I'm holding out the hope that we'll get some sort of Logan's Run-style survival challenge in the near future, wiping smug, bland, mediocre, shit-brained show-offs out of fucking existence, and the banal hosts along with them. There is a place for reality TV. It's in small doses in small pockets of scheduling where I can happily ignore it, not across the fucking Radio Times. There should be room for fresh new comedy and drama too, but as we've just had Big Top, I don't think that's going to happen any time soon. Maybe if I did a little dance on Mark Thompson's desk, he might snap out of the ratings-driven trance he's in. Chase ratings by all means, but look past the jerking knees for other solutions.