Strictly
This might be why you’re here so here goes, let me divulge. If I haven’t covered enough then I’m happy to answer any questions. Tweet me and I’ll reply, that’s the deal. You’ve got the book and you want to know what Giovanni looks like without his top on – I get it, just let me know. (By the way, if that is the question, the answer is knockout, plus much more muscular than you’d think.)
Strictly has been (I don’t want your stomach to turn, so please be prepared) a gift to me. A barnstorming, stonking, thunderbolt of a present. I started working on It Takes Two in 2004. There had been one series already, my son was tiny and they said, ‘Look, can you talk about the foxtrot every night live at 6.30pm?’ I could be with him all morning and then go to work. I know. It was a six-week run and I was ridiculously lucky.
I then went on to present the results show and when Sir Bruce resigned I got Tess’s job. Sometimes good fortune just falls in your lap. How did I, a short, scruffy, orange idiot get to be part of one of the nation’s favourite TV shows? All I can say is that there has been no better example of right place, right time on earth. If you like watching it (I realise some of you won’t), I’d like to tell you what it’s like working on it.
The first day is the thrilling bit. This is when we get to find out who will be taking part. We get the list (everyone is given code names so their identities don’t leak out – one year they were all cartoon characters and we used to have excellent conversations about whether Daffy Duck or Cinderella would dance first – magnificent) and once we’ve got the names then we can really start getting excited.
I should say that they tell me last minute after an ‘incident’ in 2006. You see, they told me early who was taking part and they’d given me everyone’s bios. I was eager and ready to do my research (when I say ‘research’, I mean watch EastEnders for hours, getting on Wikipedia while holding a pen) and, on leaving the BBC, I jumped in the lift. Someone (friendly, smiley, rucksack) asked if I knew who was going to be in the cast. I rattled off the list and the next day he told everyone on his floor (not his fault, mine) and they decided that I was absolutely useless at keeping a secret. I’m pretty sure they now tell Tess weeks before me. I’m like a toddler with a dicky tummy – not good at keeping anything in.
We don’t take it for granted that people will watch again every year. That would be stupid, and arrogant, and deeply uncool. At the launch, there’s anticipation in the air: will they watch, will they come, will anybody care? We’re also desperate to see these humans move. Can they dance? Can they clap in time? (I can’t, incidentally) and will they gel with everyone else (they do). But mainly there’s the fear – a real deep-down sense of ‘Help, what if people don’t want to watch it anymore?’ This is healthy and normal but it’s a great relief when the studio audience is happy to see everyone. They love the professional dancers so much. One group dance and we’re on our way.
When we are getting ready to start filming, I always have the same problem. It’s this – from January until the end of August I wear exactly the same thing: black jeans, black sweater and boots and my body is wholly covered up. Maybe there’s a fortnight away but obviously I stay in the shade in a massive t-shirt (my skin no longer recognises the actual sun, it only accepts tan if it’s from Boots). Your human bulk gets bigger, it gets smaller, no biggie. Sometimes it’s in the mood for pizza, sometimes it wants to order cous cous (I’ve actually never ordered cous cous, it’s a disgrace, but you get the picture). Either way, throughout these months, my physical self, if you will, is not really my concern. I don’t have a full-length mirror at home so I am never really engaged in my physique.
Then all of a sudden it’s Strictly season and I need to be aware of the stuff that’s going on below my neck. I should be used to this by now, this should be calculated, and yet every year it’s still a surprise. Oh, legs out you say? They want me in bright green? I need to think about floor-length gowns (help) and thigh slits and Spanx (might need to wear two pairs) and all that jazz.
Thankfully, a brilliant human being called Sinead helps. We spend a day out trying to buy anything glitzy that will fit and that I can walk in. My preference would be to get one black suit and wear it every week (possibly with slightly different sized gold hoop earrings) but this is not enough I’ve been told. Come on, make an effort, wear some colour, do it. They’re not wrong. While constantly wearing black in real life is sensible and effective (see here), on TV it looks lazy. It’s a cold night in November and the kind viewers who are keeping us in jobs deserve scarlet, electric blue, bright yellow. Just trundling onto an entertainment show in a black t-shirt is aloof, very much not in the spirit of it all.
It’s actually a privilege to get all dressed up and wear these clothes. We don’t keep them, of course – the BBC will reuse everything again and again. One long pink dress from 2012 has been on soaps, dramas and three other entertainment shows and this makes me happy. We buy and pass on and eventually the dresses Tess and I wear will be sold and the money goes to charity.
Because of this important fact, because they’re never actually ending up in my wardrobe, we can go a bit more nuts, be slightly braver. We’re not buying anything that needs to be for life, it just needs to be for once. It needs to be for Strictly. A full gold sequin trouser suit? With gold platforms and a gold choker? Are you sure? Is it too much? Yes. Then definitely add to basket. A silver bejewelled and lamé zebra-print dress? Let’s take it to the till.
Less is simply less on Strictly. You think that fully beaded rainbow yeti dress is a little bit too musicals, too out there, too overdone? Yes, you’re right. It’ll be perfect. Basically, I’m going to the best fancy dress party every Saturday night for twelve weeks in a row and I love every second. And then at the drinks after the final I am back in the same black jeans, the same old boots and won’t take them off for eight months. Sorted.
You never get used to the nerves. Everything is fine, everything is prepared – that’s what I tell myself. We’ve rehearsed; when I practised the autocue script I didn’t trip up over ‘the scores are in’. Good. I’m fully ‘done’ (hair, make-up, clothes) and have said good luck to the couples who are quaking behind the sparkly curtain. It’s a few minutes to lights up, to being live on air, and suddenly my mouth goes funny. I’m actually not quite sure I can speak – god, why is it so dry? Why has my tongue doubled in size? Quick, have another swig of Diet 7up (I should explain I don’t really ‘do’ water – it’s too showy, too healthy, too pleased with itself) and we say hello to the audience. They’re charming, they’re ready, they’re excited. We’re terrified, please help us we say, please support the dancers we plead.
I have to slightly punch Tess (I promise it’s not a real punch, more of a nudge) to try to get rid of the nerves but they come anyway. They mount and when there’s 30 seconds to go, it’s like I’m under a massive wave of hysteria. Yes, it’s only telly and sure, it doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things if I fall over or mess up the words, I know we’d all survive. I’m hardly in an operating theatre holding a scalpel. But the sense of responsibility and not wanting to let everyone down still feels huge.
Strictly is a large, often long, complicated show and the brilliant director is spinning hundreds of plates. We presenters are only tiny cogs in an enormous machine. Many components need to fit into the time slot – the band need to be showcased, the dances have to have enough time, the judges should be allowed to give a full assessment and in order for this to happen we have to hit our timings. Wanging on in the hello or going off piste in a chat is selfish and puts everything else out.
More breathing (trying) and then that’s it, the floor manager has nudged me under the light. I’m holding onto Anton or Gorka or Johannes and it’s time, the theme tune is playing and I’m walking (I’m not sure how) and we’re on air and I could be sick and I feel slightly queasy knowing I could do the wrong thing – if I bugger it up, if I swear, if I fall over, if I can’t see the words, if I introduce the wrong thing. The entity that’s keeping me stable and solid, that means I’m able to stay on the right spot (if I’m really swaying it means I’m terrified btw), is Tess, who’s like a beautiful, blonde, kind anchor.
The studio audience are clapping; I can hear a ‘cue’ in my earpiece and, to be frank, this is the deal, this is the job. I can bond with the dancers and the celebs and I can bring in cookies for the script reads but I’ve basically been hired to look down the barrel of the lens and say the words in front of me. It sounds easy. Some good news. It is.
Tess and I do some talking and then the dancing starts. I should be used to it. I should be immune, it’s been sixteen years. Another Argentine tango? Whatever, I’m just over here eating a bun – you carry on. That is, however, just not how it is. The minute they dance and they love it (the key is that the ones who love it the most make the final – true fact) we all get goosebumps. I’m an old lady with hormones all over the place so I am used to feeling moved, so don’t just take it from me. The camera crew, the props boys, the extraordinary producers – we all quite simply … go. If it’s upbeat we move our little feet and clap along (or try to, in my case) and if it’s emotional, moving and the band are playing (I should mention the wonder that is Dave Arch here) then that’s it. We’re hooked.
The celebrities are terrified too, they’re the stars and they’re totally out of their comfort zones. We get to know them, we know their kids’ names, we tell them it will be OK, we try and look after them as best we can. They work so hard all week to perfect the dance and then when it goes well the room erupts and we celebrate with them. When the judges get out a 10 the excitement is real. We’re not laissez faire, we’re not all taking it in our stride. It might sound stupid but for that moment, for that couple, so often for their families, it matters.
After twelve weeks of pizza (Tess has pineapple on hers, apart from that fact she is a completely perfect human being) and dancing and fear it’s all over and one will be crowned winner. The excellent team who make the show all dance and drink and we cuddle them and thank them and say (hopefully) see you next year. We leave on a high, we skip home covered in glitter and hair spray and an outrageous amount of fake tan, and yet the final is not the highlight for me. Weird but true.
You see, we go to Blackpool every year in November. It’s bitterly cold and we take a couple of trains on the Thursday night or arrive slightly car-sick. Much of the pleasure beach is closed, the bed and breakfasts are 8 per cent full and the sea wind (it’s not ‘air’ in November, it’ll whip your hair up into a twisted pylon if you’re outside for a minute) is fierce. If we were talking about any other town, any other location on earth it would probably be sad, slightly miserable, a bit of a let down. Leaving your families and cosy beds behind to meet at the seaside in the freezing rain? Here’s the thing, though – it’s Blackpool and I’ve never been to anywhere more welcoming in my life (no exaggeration). We love it there and they seem to love us.
Everyone has a massive smile – come and try my fish and chips; we have rock but it’s not the kind that’ll break your teeth as we make it fresh. Have dinner in this Thai restaurant, check out our noodles, better than London (they are). And then we all feel sad (and hungover, it has to be said) when we leave on Sunday. We’d film there every week if we were allowed.
We could all learn a little from Blackpool, actually. Kind, open arms, share our stuff, enjoy what we have. It’s one of a kind. I have no idea what it’s like in the summer but in the depths of winter when it gets dark at 4 and the whole place is covered in a gentle drizzle – it’s pure magic.