Once upon a time, when I was presenting The One Show, I used to get asked – begged, even – to do Strictly Come Dancing. On one occasion, a couple of channel executives, who have since moved on, took me to dinner to try to talk me into it. They even pulled out glossy 10x8 photographs of the new professional dancers. I am sure this wasn’t their intention – they were just trying to enthuse me about the whole production – but to anyone looking on from another table it must have looked as though they were inviting me to take my pick.
There were more reasons for me not to do Strictly than there are sequins on all the outfits of all the ballroom dancers in the whole wide world. It is not so much the dancing itself. In fact, I am a quite brilliant dancer. My problem is that I can do it only when no one is watching – not even me. Seriously: I can’t even look at myself in the mirror doing it. One day this summer, I was looking after my friend’s cockapoo, Hugo, and, close though we are, I couldn’t dance in front of him. I went to pieces.
But, home alone, shimmying around beautifully, I know I am a simply superb mover. It is just that, as soon as a set of eyeballs alights on me, it is game over. As for actual dancefloors, I become paralysed with shame and embarrassment, quite unable to move at all.
The thing I find especially difficult is the process of taking to the floor; the transition between not dancing (ie walking) and dancing. It just seems ludicrous to me, if not as ludicrous as the opposite transition, between dancing and not dancing. Do you just stop abruptly? Or try to segue from a dance to a walk? It is too much for me to contend with.
As I say, though, the problem with Strictly wouldn’t have been the dancing. Given enough practice, I could have had a bash. At least there are definite starting and stopping points to every routine, so my transition anxiety wouldn’t come into it. No, it is all the smiling that I couldn’t manage.
How do they do it? I find it hard to smile at the best of times, especially while I am concentrating. I do a lot of inward smiling, but that is no good for anything but a scowly tango. As for those outfits, I can’t abide anything see-through, tight or glittery. Just writing those words has me goosefleshing all over.
And one other thing: a famous young male TV presenter who had previously been on Strictly once took me aside and said: “Look, what you’ve got to understand is that it’s impossible to be rubbing up so close to your partner without getting aroused.”
I like to think this wouldn’t have been the case with me. However, every time I hear that theme music, a mental image of myself dad-dances into view. I am smiling grotesquely, dancing incompetently and plainly struggling with the, er, tightness of my costume. It is horrible.
Anyway, back in the day, I ran the idea of going on Strictly past my kids. “No, no, no,” they said. “Absolutely not.” It was a good call.
•Adrian Chiles is a writer, broadcaster and Guardian columnist
