I see your raised eyebrow, your rolling eyes, the huffs of pure disdain that pour out of you like the death-farts of a bloated corpse. You’re the Simon Cowell of ballroom dancing, cattier than Andrew Lloyd-Webber’s wank fantasies, pouring cold water on the hopes and dreams of faded celebrities clawing at their own relevance in a desperate attempt to resuscitate it. You’re an absolute bitch, Craig Revel Horwood, and the job of taking them all down a peg or two is part of the fun. You’ve no problem speaking truth to power, regardless of the boos of the audience, and it’s given you a fab-u-lous life.
Until now, that is. The bell tolls for everyone, Craig Revel Horwood, and now it tolls for you.
I see you, Craig Revel Horwood, as you shake hands and wave at the fans as you leave the studio. It’s been another a-ma-zing night, a sequinned carnival of fake smiles and awkward dancing. There have been missteps and catfights and squabbles across the judge’s table but ultimately it’s all in the name of light entertainment, a little slice of glitz and glamour and dance hall nostalgia for the mindless plebs. I see you step to your car, pulling off your expensive tie and smiling with satisfaction at a job well done.
I see the figure step out of the shadows, Craig Revel Horwood, and I see the filthy sack pulled over your head. I see the the bearlike arms envelope you, pinning your own across your chest. I hear your stifled cry and the screech of rubber as the van pulls up, the sliding door pulled aside before you’re bundled inside.
I hear the van squeal off into the night, your screams fading into the background hum of the London nightlife.
I see your head rolling, Craig Revel Horwood, your breath coming in heavy snores that rattle against your chest. In the gloom I see a gloved hand reach out and wave a silver bottle under your nose. I hear you gasp as you’re pulled back into the conscious world.
I see you wince as the lights erupt into life, the Strictly music blaring through the warehouse, your eyes struggling to adjust. I see you blink and I hear you plead for your life as the shadowy figure moves towards you, backlit by industrial floodlights, its shadowy features cast in darkness. I see the hunched shoulders, the long, trailing limbs, the spidery fingers reaching for you.
I hear you begin to cry, Craig Revel Horwood, before the man in the suit steps in front of you and slaps the voting paddles down on the desk. I see you struggle, finding your ankles shackled to the ground. The air hums with menace and the lights hurt your eyes, but the man in the suit? Something in his demeanour is somehow even more threatening than the backlit corpse. There’s a whiff of something even more evil about him, the sickly sweet stench of decay. He stinks of PR, and he wants your honest feedback.
I see your trembling hand reach for the 10, Craig Revel Horwood, and I see the paddle rise. What else can you do? It feels like your life hangs in the balance. She’s not even danced yet, but what can you do? I see the man nod, moving out of the light, leaving you alone with the wretched creature.
I hear Theresa May clear her throat, and I hear the drums kick in. I see her jerk, like a marionette with a taser up its arse, her smile the thing of nightmares as she bounces around. You’ve never seen anything like it – it’s a wretched performance, the stuff of horrors. It’s absolute filth and you despise it.
But you can’t tear your eyes away, Craig Revel Horwood. All around you the world can burn, but you can’t look away. She’s fixed you with those eyes as she dances you in to madness and nobody can look at anything else.
You made your mind up, Craig Revel Horwood. You approved of this and there will be no second vote.
I see the tears of blood begin to roll down your cheeks, Craig Revel Horwood. I hear the drums get louder.
It’s just you and her now, dancing away to the end of the world.
You’ll lose your mind here, Craig Revel Horwood. But just watch her dance. Watch her dance, for nothing else matters.
I see you, Craig Revel Horwood. I fucking see you.
