Nancies on Ice

I came to realise one of the benefits of living in an all-male household last evening, when I rang Sarah at just after seven and she politely declined to speak to me as the final of Dancing on Ice was one and she and Ruth were watching it and would I mind ringing back after about a quarter past nine as that would give her a little bit of time to get Ruth nicely into bed. I could have grumbled and ascertained as to why she was watching such rubbish (not that I knew it is such rubbish as I hadn't seen any of it - it could be a rarified televisual treat for all I knew) but I just obliged and put the phone down.

As I was feeling low, both physically and mentally, I found myself flicking on the TV and watching the damned bloody thing. It was presented by a white-haired Philip Schofield (whom I'd last seen entertaining some squeaking sock-puppet on Children's telly) and some woman I'd never heard of but seemed notably encumbered in the chest department and seemed intent upon making the world in general aware of this fact.

There seemed to be six people in the final. It took me a while to gather that three of these were celebrities, and three of them were professional skaters. Out of the entire half a dozen, the only one who'd ever even slightly punctured my awareness was Donal McaIntyre (whom I'd always thought to be called Donald, so at least I learnt something). I'd no idea who Jessica Taylor was, and of the remaining twosome (Ray & Phillipa(?)) it was impossible to work out which one was the professional skater and which one was the alleged celebrity.

Anyway, all six did a bit of pointless ice dancing and Jessica Taylor was told to pack her skates and get stuffed and duly burst into tears because she'd wanted to dance for her mum because it was mother's day (ignoring the fact that I assume all the other competitors had mothers as well).

Next, the remaining four did a further ice dance to the Torvill and Dean (who were present to give expert opinion and too look old) inspired Bolero, or at least the bu66ered-up version of it (as the proper version lasts over seven minutes). Donal and his partner were frankly rubbish. One of the five judges (who was bald and camper than Charles Hawtrey in a tent) explained this to be the case and paid for such obvious honesty by being booed, insulted and finally thrown into the fiery pits of Valhalla. The other judges just whimpered and muttered jolly good effort.

That Ray then came on and quite frankly, took the pi$$. They should have called a halt after thirty seconds, chucked his trophy at him then filled the last hour with a Morse episode instead. I did finally worked out where I'd seen him before though - he was Edward and Tubbs' son from The League of Gentleman. No wonder he was so good with all the extra time he must have gotten at his nearest skating facility: "This is a local ice-rink for local people, there's nothing for you, here!"

But still they lumbered on. A whole troupe of nobodies suddenly emerged onto the ice. The only ones I recognised were Graeme Le Saux (Under-capped English left-back horribly ignored in favour of the brutish and thuggish Stuart Pearce), Ellory Hanley (formerly butch rugby legend) and Tucker from Grange Hill who quite obviously had never been within two hundred miles of an ice-rink in his entire life before that evening (perhaps Roland or Zammo chickened out at the last minute and Tucker was there for support?). Sadly, not one of them fell on their @rses.

Still no end seemed in sight. Torvill and Dean tossed their bladed zimmer-frames to one side for a few minutes and tottered around the ice for nostalgia's sake, one suspects. Then there was an advert break in which someone very obviously attempted to persuade me that I desired to give sexual oral relief to a pork sausage.

Back to the grind. Tubbs Jr and Donal(d) were lined up on the ice and Gordon-the-Gopher's ex-keeper announced who had won. Oh wait a minute, no he didn't. He got through much of the appropriate sentence without that crucial final bit. The camera settled on Ray. Then on Donal. The camera settled on Ray. Then on Donal. The camera settled on Ray. Then on Donal. The camera settled on Ray. Then on Donal. The camera settled on Ray. Then on Donal. The camera settled on Ray. Then on Donal. The camera settled on Ray. Then on Donal. The camera settled on Ray. Then on Donal. The camera settled on Ray. Then on Donal. The camera settled on Ray. Then on Donal. The camera settled on Ray. Then on Donal. The camera settled on Ray. Then on Donal. Then on a baboon who had wandered into the arena. Then back on both couples.

Then: "RAY!!"

Cheers, yells, shouts, hugs, tears, and Ray doing his best to act like he couldn't believe it. He said, quite sweetly: Although it was obvious to anyone with more than three braincells that I have more talent and ability in one of my discarded toe-nails than either of the other finalists, I'm still going to do my duty and act like I did not expect to win at all!

Then I switched off, and wondered where the last one-and-a-half hours of my life has gone.

Today I have felt mostly poorly. I woke up yesterday feeling pretty terrible and as the day wore on, the worse I felt. I feel light-headed; but conversely as well as though my head is stuffed full of cotton wool. I might go to the doctors, I might not (they'd only say it's a virus, anyway).