Last Saturday, when my wife Kate Garraway was finally voted off BBC1’s
Strictly Come Dancing, I was emotionally ripped in two. Part of me was
upset, but another part was relieved.
In the previous six weeks the show had taken over our lives while capturing
the imagination of the nation. Kate had barely been out of the papers since
day one, and the paparazzi were camped outside our door.
There was a fuss in the newspapers because the audience was voting to keep
Kate in while sending other, arguably better, dancers home. As the
controversy grew, the News of the World ran the full-page headline: “[Steve]
McClaren is the Kate Garraway of football.”
Last Tuesday there were three pictures of Kate in The Sun alone. One to
accompany a piece ridiculously alleging she had made up her latest injury;
another on the television listing pages; and one where they had Photoshopped
her “dancing” with Peter Crouch.
Like Rod Stewart – whose wife Penny Lancaster was also on the show – I was
dubbed a “Hab” by the media: one of the husbands and boyfriends. The
legendary rocker summed up the feelings of all of us when he cried, a week
after the show began, “I want my wife back.”
Penny was voted out the week before Kate. A few days later she was keen to
show Rod that she had got over her upset and drove to the airport to pick
him up in his favourite Ferrari. As he hopped in the car his first question
was: “How you doing, love?” – at which she opened her black velvet coat to
reveal a set of skimpy underwear.
Back at the Draper house for our first Sunday morning in two months, I waited
in bed for Kate’s treat. It eventually appeared. Sporting a mismatched
tracksuit and a face mask, she brought me a bacon butty. Well, we can’t all
be rock stars.
I was relieved that Kate was no longer being mauled in the media – though we’d
long taken the view that all publicity is good publicity in this case, and a
lot of the coverage was positive – and I was glad just to have my wife back.
As we finally got our old life together I found myself reflecting on Strictly
Come Dancing’s unique popularity. It outperforms ITV’s The X Factor, drawing
up to about 9m viewers each Saturday and millions more on Sunday and
throughout the week for its BBC2 spin-off. Just what is it about Strictly,
as its fans call it, that proves so absorbing?
The show’s reach is phenomenally broad. Sir Michael Lyons, the chairman of the
BBC, singles it out as his favourite programme, and each week we had to
share out the four tickets each celebrity is allocated between political
bigwigs, newspaper executives and Kate’s family, especially her young
cousins.
Those are the lucky few. At the less privileged end of the spectrum there is a
plethora of Strictly forums on the internet where real people intensely
debate the dances, the dresses, the judges and the way the show is put
together each week.
The diversity of stars is, of course, one of its attractions. There’s
something for everyone: EastEnders fans, buyers of lad mags such as FHM,
sports supporters and music lovers. It is also brilliantly and expensively
produced.
Admittedly the sandwiches in the green room are a throwback to the bad old
days of British Rail, and Kate would get irate phone calls if she kept a cab
waiting for more than five minutes; but this penny-pinching sits alongside a
real investment in quality.
The trailer for this year’s show cost more than the entire first series and
all those fabulous dresses are made in advance – though you can, if you have
£1,500 or so to spare, buy them in the new year from Chrisanne’s in south
London. They always sell out, I’m told.
The show’s popularity isn’t fully explained by its quality, however. Nor is it
explained by the echoes of ancient Rome, Punch and Judy, British music hall,
Hollywood studio glamour and pantomime. (The judges are the villains, Bruce
is Buttons and the winner is Cinderella.)
I think that it appeals, on a fundamental psychological level, to three of our
most deep-rooted instincts: sexuality, aggression and the need for
belonging. It even taps into ancient mythology and the theory of dreams.
This makes it as fascinating to the armchair psychoanalyst as it is to the
armchair viewer.
Freud’s notion of sexuality was not just about sex. It was about what absorbs
and excites us. Strictly Come Dancing allows us to enjoy the spectacle of
dance, with its close physical relationship to sex and displays of
flirtation and colourful plumage that wouldn’t be out of place in a
wild-life documentary. The dances – especially Latin ones such as the samba
– ooze sexuality.
Fans know of the rumours that previous couples have taken the heat with them
off the dance floor. In this series there have been stories suggesting that
handsome Matt Di Angelo from EastEnders is falling for his dancing partner
Flavia Cacace. True or not, they add a frisson of excitement to their dances
every week.
Luckily there was no such rumours about Kate and Anton Du Beke, her partner,
although they did grow incredibly close – so much so that they have been
having regular coffees to manage their withdrawal.
Anton is remarkably popular with women. One girl fainted when he twirled in
front of her at the National Television Awards. He seems to have changed a
bit after his experiences with Kate, though, and I suspect he may be ready
to put aside his reputation as a ladies’ man and settle down.
Strictly’s other basic psychological drive is aggression, which gives the show
its kick. While enjoying the achievements of the stars, we get to see them
suffer from the gruelling training regimes, the injuries and the caustic
comments of the judges. Kate was compared to a dancing quail and
Tutankhamun, and she was told she was as “sexy as a coconut”.
The studio audience is encouraged to boo and hiss at these insults. It is a
potent emotional mix: they can admire, envy and enjoy the humiliation of the
contestants.
Even that does not explain the depth to which the show has entered the
national psyche, however. This is down, I think, to something vital that is
missing from most of our lives today: a real sense of community.
Evolutionary psychology shows that for tens of thousands of years we lived in
villages of around 150 people. We knew everyone and they knew us. We shared
their trials and tribulations, and they shared ours.
In our modern lives, we often do not even know the names of our closest
neighbours. But we crave to be part of something big that can unite the
nation.
I think that we thirst to be part of a collective story, like our ancestors
were in their villages, and that this thirst drives the gigantic interest in
celebrities – even talentless ones.
We admire the most beautiful, pity the least fortunate and argue over the most
eccentric in the new global or virtual village brought to us by television,
newspapers and the internet.
Strictly perfectly provides for this thirst. But unlike the overt manipulation
involved in shows such as Big Brother there is something authentic about it.
Yes, it allows us to identify – in our fantasies – with Athenas and Adonises
like Kelly Brook and Di Angelo; but it also allows us to identify, on a more
realistic level, with the likes of Kate.
People at home understandably think that they too – with a good teacher, a
glamorous dress and a bit of confidence and luck – could dance like her or
do even better.
This taps into the oldest and greatest archetypal myth: that of the ordinary
soul who goes on a journey and comes back a hero.
It also binds people together in a conversation about talent. A truck driver
can share a conversation with a lady of the manor about a skill that until
five years ago had largely disappeared from Britain’s consciousness.
Compare this with Big Brother. Try to strike up a conversation about whether
Chanelle dumped Ziggy or vice versa, and in polite company the conversation
will be fairly short. Strike up a conversation about Kenny Logan’s paso
doble and the chances are that people will have an opinion – and an informed
one at that.
Strictly brings out the best, not the worst, of humanity: it demonstrates our
need and desire to master a talent, and the hard work and disappointment
that goes with it. Despite the glamour, its emotions are not contrived.
When Gabby Logan cried for two days after being voted off Strictly it was not
because she had been manipulated by a production team or due to any personal
flaws. It was her genuine, heartfelt response to what had happened. The
public, to use a psychotherapy cliché, felt her pain.
Other contestants also revealed their inner vulnerability. Gethin Jones’s
struggle to be sexy; Letitia Dean’s initial lack of confidence; Penny
Lancaster’s occasional insecurity – these were not contrived but showed the
reality behind the usually airbrushed photoshoots and finely spun publicity
campaigns.
People have been getting to see their favourite stars as they really are and
have enjoyed discovering that they are more like them than it often appears.
In an age of artifice, people crave such authenticity, especially if they
can share their appreciation of it with others.
So what does this have to do with dream theory? Consider this: the two most
recurrent dreams people mention in psychotherapy are finding yourself naked
in a public place and sitting an exam without having prepared. These
symbolically represent the two great human anxieties: vulnerability and
failure.
Each week the Strictly celebrities enter the lion’s den at Television Centre
and act out those terrifying dreams in front of some 9m people. We watch
transfixed as they live out, simultaneously, our greatest fantasies and our
worst nightmares – all to a backdrop of a live big band, glitterballs and
sequins.
Putting aside my psychotherapist’s handbook, I asked Sue Nye, Gordon Brown’s
right-hand woman, her opinion. She joined us in the studio audience one week
with her nine-year-old son Matthew, who made friends with everyone as he
filled his handmade album with autographs.
Sue believes the secret of the show’s success is down to the fact that the
whole family can watch. Matthew, his teenage brother and sister and their
brainbox economist father Gavyn Davies gather round the telly with Sue every
Saturday; and each has his or her own valid view about what’s going on.
“It’s basically good old-fashioned family entertainment,” Sue said.
Moreover, the lessons that Strictly teaches are the right ones for us all –
especially kids – to learn. If a 6ft 6in rugby player can glide around the
dance floor in a pink sequinned top then any of us can do something we never
felt capable of before.
Derek Draper is a psychotherapist with diy-therapy.com and a former Labour
spin doctor
