Among the life changes that occurred in the latter half of my twenties – dog ownership, a running habit, the pandemic – one thing I never planned on becoming was a die-hard Strictly fan. After living with my in-laws for a month, I became addicted to what had once seemed like a middle-aged series that required a substantial time commitment. I loved it for the same reasons everyone does: its variety, its warmth, the talent on show, the narrative arcs of the contestant, and the parasocial relationships I form with certain dancers and judges.
Strictly Come Dancing is synonymous with wholesome television: while judges may employ a tough-love approach, the show is powered by a deep kindness. This good feeling has long overpowered its seedier undercurrent: the marriage breakdowns and cheating scandals emerging between instructors and contestants (known as the “Strictly curse”); and the notoriously gruelling schedules and physically demanding rehearsals (many contestants have reported significant weight loss from the intensity of daily 9-5 workouts). The Strictly brand has weathered bad press with relative ease. It is beloved not just for its entertainment value but because of its status as gentle, guilt-free TV.
Until now. This Saturday (14 September), Strictly will return for its 20th season on BBC One, shortly after its worst ever PR year. Since the sudden and murky departure from last year’s series of the actor Amanda Abbington – who had been partnered with the professional dancer Giovanni Pernice – there have been whispers of mistreatment behind the scenes. In January, tabloids reported that Abbington was seeking legal advice regarding her time on Strictly and had requested footage of her rehearsals with Pernice. By May, two former partners of Pernice’s also reportedly spoke about his training methods with Abbington and her legal representatives.
A few weeks later, another dancer, Graziano Di Prima, was accused of hitting, kicking and spitting at his 2023 celebrity partner, Zara McDermott, during their training sessions (a video of one of these incidents, not released to the press, reportedly “reduced those who have seen it to tears”). Other concerning stories emerged: in July, the Paralympian Will Bayley came out to make a complaint against his former partner, Janette Manrana, for forcing him to jump in rehearsals in 2019, leaving him with what he described as a “life-changing injury”. Then the Mirror reported that current judge and ex-professional dancer Anton Du Beke was apparently “bracing himself” for a legal complaint from his former partner Laila Rouass over historic allegations he used a racial slur, for which he had previously apologised.
The BBC confirmed neither Di Prima nor Pernice would return in the 2024 edition and that an investigation into this culture at Strictly was under way. The BBC director general Tim Davie made a formal apology to those who were mistreated on the show. (The investigation is ongoing, though one source quoted in the Sun suggested the new series “could sweep away the scandal”.) The BBC also announced that Strictly will introduce a celebrity welfare producer and a professional dancer welfare producer – and that contestants will no longer be left alone with their partners in rehearsals.
Perhaps we should expect similarly laboured efforts to convince viewers that Strictly is prioritising celebrity wellbeing during the next series. Maybe we will see footage of professional dancers telling their celebrity partners they deserve a break from practise; asking “Is this OK?” and “are you alright with this sequence?” We can expect a heartfelt speech to camera from Claudia Winkleman and Tess Daly telling us that they know this is just a dance show and reminding us to “be kind” to one another. Such cynical efforts would come across as cloying and jarring.
What’s worse is that these scandals have revealed a lie at the heart of Strictly, a show that we wanted to believe was wholly good. Strictly Come Dancing was heartwarming because it presented a progressive vision of Britain, rare on mainstream television. It has championed same-sex pairings, racial diversity, disabled contestants and features contestants with a range of body types and ages. Surprisingly, its boomer audience embraced this “wokeness” – or, even better, treated it with neutrality. Strictly’s kindness now seems performative, undermined by a hidden toxic culture.
The breaking of the Strictly facade comes at a moment in popular culture when we are asking whether reality TV can ever truly be “ethical”? Strictly arguably shouldn’t even fall into this discussion, as it’s the competition – rather than contestant distress – that generates all the drama. The fact that it has entered the conversation at all suggests an uncomfortable truth we have been avoiding about the fundamental cost of televised entertainment.
This season of Strictly will bring the same pleasure it always has. The scandal, at some moments, may even be forgotten. But the wholesome ideal underpinning Strictly is gone. Like so many other shows before it, it is no longer guilt-free TV.
[See also: JG Ballard’s apocalyptic art]
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