Dear Deirdre,

So much has been happening recently that my brain is frying. Is it not enough to have to learn withn one week how to dance the charleston as the lindyhop, then to dance the charleston as charleston, then to dance the charleston as Show Dance?

You know I am in a popularity show, but some pedants are putting it about that I am popular in a dance show. For goodness sake cannot the hairsplitters split end in a proper hairdressing saloon?

Until last Saturday I was quietly pleased. After laboriously doing 13 shows I managed to build up my fan club. Then came last Saturday the semi-final.

Blow me down if that woman judge Miss A. Lasher did not try to upstage me by wearing a sequined sanitary towel on the right side of her head. There was worse to come. That Italian judge left kept jumping up to demo the moves I was not making. Honestly, what does that Bruno want? Blood? I have already made myself constipated from smiling nonstop.

Today came another bombshell. Our

"I am not doddery,
doddery I am not"

host is not what he seems. Although for years people have suspected his true age because of the Victorian gags he uses. Today he was outed as having sat as the model for the Turin Shroud. After Bill let the cat out of the bag this morning all the attention has shifted from me to Brucie of Turin, and his intriguing connections with the da Vinci Code.

I tell you Deirdre, I am being upstaged from all sides. My rival Ricky and his Aussie are doing my head in. That Ricky will stop at nothing he won't. He did a backflip. He lifted his floosie like a bale of hay over his head. The audience took not a blind bit of notice. Len said that Ricky was in the wrong studio, that weightlifters were doing their stuff in Studio 2.

That you hope would have been the end of the stunts. Not a bit. Ricky got himself arrested didn't he. Then he posed in the cop shop for a pic showing handcuffs, sixpack, and his hands strategically placed. Now he says he had promised in week one to dance in the Final wearing a thong . For Mark to dance in a swimsuit would have been ok as his swimsuit was his day suit, just as a bikini is my partner Ola's night suit. But a thong I ask you Deirdre, a thong? Words fail me. I am going to lie down in a darkened room to get ready to smile to customers.

One thing dear Deirdre. There used to be a thread telling stories too funny not to be true. I need a little light reading before lying down in a darkened room. Auntie Deirdre could you see your way to get your chums to revive Murder on the Dance Floor?

Yours faithfully,

Chris

Ah if only more threads were like this.

genius

Fantastic. Love the sequinned sanitary towel!

Dear Chris

Thank you so much for sending me your tail of woe. It has made an almost redundant SCD Agony Aunt delirious with happiness at a time when things were so bad for me that I was thinking of sending a post to myself.

Never mind Brucie, you, Chris, are my saviour. You have saved my sanity. Unlike 'I is her' Dixon who seems as you say to have saved her sanitary.

When I have recovered from the shock I will write more fully.

Meanwhile, 'Keep Dancing!' (and gurning)

Love

Deidre

Dear Chris

Thinking about Murder on the Dance Floor, I find it highly suspicous that Ricky and Natalie tripped on the way down the stairs last Saturday. Who is to say what might happen if Ricky were to attempt his turning Natalie on her head routine while someone may have previously applied a lethally greasy substance to her legs?

Just a thought. Hope I have cheered you up a little and look forward to hearing from you soon.

Deidre

Dear Chris

While awaiting your reply, I notice that I have referred to your 'tail of woe', when I meant your 'tale of woe'. Is this a Freudian slip? I don't know why I am asking you. After all, I am the psychologist here.

I need help!

Deirdre

Dear Deidre,

Haven't you read the other threads?
I have a tail because I am the Devil incarnate!

Love and kisses

Chris

Dear Chris

Ah yes, *strokes beard* I remember those lessons well.

This is nothing at all to do with you and is a lot to do with jealousy and small mindedness. It is the human condition.

Even your rival Ricky will have his own set of problems, as will Ola and Natalie, Brucie and the judges.

Always remember, I am here for you all.

Deirdre

Dear Deidre

I am well gutted cos I was wearing this bow thing last week and people on here think it was one of them winged things with sequins sewn on. That Darcy put me up to it. Said it would make me look right classy like wot she is. Do you think she has dropped me innit?

Luv n stuff
Alesha x

Dear Alesha x

I think you should ignore any future stylistic tips from a certain quarter. Beware advice from someone who speaks with a forked tale, oops there I go again, I mean tail, (or tongue even). You would be well advised to go with Craig, daahling, who knows much more about bling and stuff than any of the others on the panel. He would never wear a gynaecological device on his head, and neither should you.

Deirdre

Of course, he might wear one somewhere else, as he's doing panto this year. Maybe following his sartorial tips isn't such a good idea...

His Down Under connections are a different matter entirely.

Dear Deirdrie,

Nice to write to you, to write to you NICE! Good evening, ladies, gentlemen and children and welcome to my show - I mean thread.

My problem, Dreary, is this: I am the star of the show, but no-one seems to realise it. Having propped up the BBC single-handedly for the past two centuries, one expects a little respect. But what do I get instead?

Every week, I have to stand next to a woman who's dressed like a Quality Street chocolate. She smiles, she pouts, she makes jokes, but it's not the same - do you remember Anthea, Deary? Exactly - this one won't even give us a twirl.

And another thing - it was bad enough having the Prefab Four on the judging panel, but now there are five of them. FIVE! They spend so long spouting on about fleckerls and banana hands that there's no time for me - the star. And now there are two women on the panel. As I told the BBC, you don't get anything for a pair - not in this game.

I tell you, Deeley, the things I do to earn my long awaited knighthood. At least little Ola and Lilia listen to me. Every week they ask how I like their hemlines and I say 'Higher, higher'!

And, to cap it all, I think the the Beeb want to get rid of me. They think that Brucie's getting too old for the show. But I'm not odd, Deirdrie - odd, Deirdrie, I am not! They'll have to drag me off this stage, kicking and screaming. Well, tap-dancing, anyway.

Anyway, enough about me - let's talk about me! Did I ever tell you about my friend, Sammy Davis Jnr...

Dear Deirdre,

I felt a little pensive these last few days.

But Wednesday has arrived. Ola Chops is on fire again spinning a thousand revs a minute, scenting the glitterball now within touching distance. For her only, for my Ola Chops I shall tread on fire. I shall walk into an arena of thousands like a gladiator. I did try toreador once, but that Bruno said I was like a child having a tantrum, so no more toreador. Wait till Bruno sees my gladiator. With Ola Chops by my side and tweaking me I am firing on all cylinders again. Bring on that Ricky and his sidekick.

Dear Deirdre, have I told you about my experience in Blackpool Tower Ballroom yet? The lights there had a warm flattering tone. There were legions of fans on the floor, in the dress circle and in the gods, hanging from the rafters and roaring us on. I felt as if I was a dancer, wonderful.

That ballroom floor was sprung like elastic and very forgiving when you stamped on it in the paso doble. In Shepherds Bush it is the exact opposite. There it is Murder on the Dance Floor.

Yesterday when deep in my pensiveness I said to Ola Chops during practice, "We've come this far, slaying dragons and maidens, are we going to lift the glittering prize at the end?"

Without a splitsecond pause Ola Chops rushed forward with eyes shining like St Bernadette. Tweaking a part of my anatomy (ouch) she announced,

"Yeah Baby!"

The above is printed in bold because this sound came in stereo, simultaneously from left and right. Ola Chops spoke from my left, but from my right out of nowhere came James with an unmistakeable hairdo and unbearably strong hand and unmissable firm voice. You would agree his hand was strong if you were tweaked by it.

James came out of nowhere, like the Seventh Cavalry when Sitting Bull and Laughing Mare had you snookered. I am in a worse predicament, with that bull prancing not sitting and that floosie choreographing the weirdest lifts for their Show Dance.

The arrival of James gave me an idea -- Murder on the Dance Floor. That smartalec Craig first planted the idea in my head. When he uttered two words to Joe I knew immediately Craig was signaling to me in code. "Rigor mortis", he said. I understood Craig immediately. If my opponent is in rigor mortis then he is no condition to lift my glitterball.

I sounded James out -- could James lift my rival above his head seven foot high like a bale of hay, then drop him like a bale of hay onto a dance floor with not spring but murder in it?

James went quiet, turning his head away. He turned back to me. He closed his eyes momentarily in that way of his......

"That Ricky can lift me seven foot high and drop me," said James, losing interest and walking away.

So Deirdre, I am back to square one, needing help on the dance floor. What am I to do Deirdre, what am I to do?

Yours disconsolately,

Chris

Dear Brucie

What a bonus to hear from you. (ROFLMAO). You have proved that Sanatogen is to octogenarian hoofers what steroids are to atheletes. You still have it my love. Bette Midler was gagging to get hold of your cumberbund the other week. (What do you get for a pair?)

Keep taking the tablets.
Yours fondlelingly
Deidre (woof!)