One of the judges — the strangest collection of human effluvia this side of Grimms’ Fairy Tales — admonished us by saying we must remember this was a dancing competition.
Now, I think it’s time I called the old dancing judges, Cheryl and Simon into my office to remind them of a few home truths. Listen carefully, all of you. Strictly Come Dancing is not a dancing competition. The X Factor is not a talent contest. The Queen Vic is not a real pub, and Basil Brush isn’t actually a talking fox. They are all entertainments. Dragons’ Den isn’t real venture capitalism, and I’m a Celebrity. . . Get Me Out of Here! isn’t a real jungle or, indeed, real celebrity, and everybody there has been begging their agents to get them in it. You are all suffering from a common green-room delusion: you believe your own billing. You are not on television because you’re experts or gurus. You’re there because you’re either funny, hateful or shaggable, and if you’re in any doubt which, then it’s not the latter.
The public votes for what makes the best television. If that means dismissing a dull genius for amusing crapness, they’ll do it without thinking. Hands up anyone who remembers the name of the men’s ski-jump gold medallists the year Eddie the Eagle came last? Exactly. Who knows, who cares?
