With a wiggle of the hips, Strictly could be our greatest weapon against Reform

There has been much gossip this week about the apparent dismissal of five of Strictly Come Dancing’s professional dancers. It seems there’s been a night of the long jives. They only lost four regulars in the Emmerdale plane crash. Still, such is the sunny resilience of the so-called Strictly family, one could imagine the five leaving Elstree Studios as a conga line, the remaining dancers holding aloft their reusable water bottles to form a slightly bittersweet guard of honour. It’s a tough time for the departees but it’s hard to sympathise with people who have such well-defined abdomens.

The truth is, I love Strictly and I’m more worried about the brand than the individuals. I’m normally quite reluctant when it comes to reality TV. There’s something about a celebrity sitting at home watching members of the public on television that suggests a world turned upside-down. Strictly, however, is one long celebrity special. OK, I haven’t always heard of the contestants, but as someone who has, on three separate occasions, been greeted with “Hello, Jasper”, I accept that fame can be hit-and-miss.

The worrying thing about this cull is that – coming so soon after the surprise departure of regular hosts Tess Daly and Claudia Winkleman, and recent tabloid tales of drugs, sexual assault and the sort of brutal training methods Russian child gymnasts would draw the line at – it suggests there may be something rotten in the state of Strictly.

I would never do the show. You know that improvised farewell dance the eliminated couple have to do, absolutely shot through with awkwardness and despair? That’s every dance I’ve ever done in my whole life. I’d be another example of that Strictly phenomenon I like to call “dancing for two”, where a hapless celebrity stands, barely moving, while a wildly overcompensating professional dancer circles them like a hummingbird circling a columbine.

Also, I couldn’t do that grinning presence in the background bit, or shamelessly beg viewers to vote for me, or be seen rehearsing in shorts, sports socks and black patent leather shoes. But I’m glad there are people not as twisted by cynicism and self-consciousness as me who can truly enter into the spirit of the show and properly do that Strictly thing. When the wide-eyed positivity feels genuine, it’s sort of beautiful.

I watched a lot of live professional wrestling as a young man. We knew, on one level, that it was fake, but we willingly suspended our disbelief in order to be fully involved. I do the same with Strictly. I actually believe it when a departing celeb says of their professional partner that they’ve made a friend for life, even though I’ve done loads of TV series and have virtually no friends.

What ruined the wrestling was when a combatant was so bad at playing the part they rubbed our noses in the fakery. We just couldn’t believe any more. This period of departing hosts, tabloid scandals and ruthless HR runs the risk of having the same effect on Strictly fans. Glinda and Elphaba have left Oz and now, it seems, the mysterious wizard is less worried about us seeing the truth behind his corporate curtain. Suddenly the Strictly family feels more like the Strictly factory.

They need to be careful. The show’s forebear, Come Dancing, began in the 1950s, and there’s still something fabulously dated about Strictly. All those tailcoats, chiffon and shirtsleeves that look like carwash brushes. And cover versions of songs like you’d get on those old Hallmark Top of the Pops albums. And the continuing significance of Blackpool. It feels like the show should be in black and white and everyone should be smoking. That would actually be very apt because the show’s throwback charm is, I think, a very effective smokescreen.

Strictly is actually quite progressive, but its progressiveness comes with a wiggling hip rather than a wagging finger. Watching the 2021 final, where, on primetime TV, two gay men, one a black South African, were narrowly beaten by a deaf woman, caused me to put my arm around my nine-year-old son and say, “You are growing up in wondrous times”.

Strictly enters people’s homes like a Trojan horse, neatly packed with diversity, and it’s welcomed because it has a feather boa and false eyelashes. The show’s percentage of foreign professionals is right up there with the Premier League. The wiggling of hips is not the only freedom of movement being celebrated. Strictly probably does more to undermine Reform party values than the current government. Yes, Strictly is unreality TV but its apparently cosy inanity can provide a sugary coating for some very effective medicine. They just need to keep it sweet.

Photograph by Alamy