Kevin is genuinely worrying.
Quite aside from the fact that he's from the same genetic stock as the domineering, fearless, robo-spined babymonster that is Joanna, he's worrying.
This is a fake dance show for prime time family entertainment. There's a ballroom dance element to it, but primarily it's celebrity pantomime. The judges just give the ol' "YER CAME OUT HERE // Work on your core strength THANK YOOOU // Fleckerels and handography DAWWLIN' // I am a flamboyant foreign homosexua"l palaver, and it's nowt to do with real dance, really. Boo the mean judge, cheer the eyeliner lady, vote for the one you recognise off that thing or that nice man Mr. Du Beke and his plastic veneer. The celebrities are learning this bollocks in between takes anyway.
Bam. Kevin from Mother****ing Grimsby.
He's taking this serious, folks. Not just the paso doble. Not just the competitive element you need to become a dancer, that means you'll take a challenge anywhere and make the XMas dinner game of Mouse Trap a scarily intense affair. He's not just taking it seriously because he's a solid Northern chap who takes pride in his work.
Kevin from Mother****ing Grimsby is a Mother****ing True Believer.
Look at him, when he snaps himself around like he's at the centre of a car crash we cannot see. Look at him, as he turns from Frank Spencer to some kind of gnashing jawed, wild eyed maniac. He does the paso doble, and he makes a flamethrower-laden fantasmagoria of sexual tension and barely concealed fury. His nice foxtrot, he suddenly bursts out into a brief but striking rattle of sheer ecstasy, and bugger anyone who watches him. A bloody song about a witch from a children's movie, and he trembles with inner fire as he explodes in a frenzy of G Forces and ligament snapping enthusiasm. At the end, as the green-painted lady from the fake girl group grabbed a broom and stood on a lift for the finale of a fake TV show to entertain the lowest common denominator, Kevin from Grimsby trembled like he'd just been granted an audience with Jehovah. And, God help me, sneering, depressive cynic that I am, for a brief moment I felt a flicker of emotion. I moistened, slightly. I've been to funerals and not cared. I've witnessed death and been unaffected. I spend my days dissecting and analysing. I've attempted murder and felt only mild concern that I might get caught. And Kevin Clifton had me emotionally invested in something totally fake and ridiculous.
Can you imagine what happens if he decides he believes in something that matters? What do we do, if he decides that what REALLY matters is politics? Or world domination? Or religion?
What do we do?
