Can you imagine turning up to work and having to deal with a bunch of giggly amateurs? Think about it: a commute in cold, rainy November, knowing your new colleagues will be unprepared and largely useless (at least for a while)? That’s what the professional dancers of Strictly Come Dancing have been doing, on and off, for more than a decade. Truly, they are the best of British. (And Italian. And Slovenian. And Danish. And so on.)
When the show launched in 2004, I knew I’d be a fan. I come from a culture that values dancing ability very highly indeed (as my years of impromptu “dancing competitions” at birthday parties will attest), and once you add the bright, rigid-with-effort smiles and the casual light humiliation, well, I was in.
What keeps me watching, though, is not the celebrity element; not Claudia’s excellent fringe. It’s the professional dancers. Week by week, they manage to build competent to amazing dancing machines (mileage may vary) out of what often look like spare parts. They make those terrible little skit clips, defend their awful celeb partners to the judges (“It was nerves, Len!”), choreograph the routines and grin through it. They glide, they twirl, they lift, they soar; whatever they are being paid, it is surely not enough.
A rundown of my favourites so far: 1) the flawless Flavia; 2) the often inadvertently creepy Anton; 3) 2015 newcomer Oti, who, I’m happy to note, has my exact skin shade. But my fave is Artem, the Russian with the most beautiful arms, who I imagine smells of sandalwood, like a Mills & Boon hero. They’re all heroes, made of glitter and graft. Salute them.
