Dancing, Datsuns, and Democracy

For many years I was a faithful viewer of Strictly Come Dancing. From around Series 4 until just after Covid, it was a Saturday-night ritual. Over time, though, my enthusiasm waned. Possibly age. Possibly lifestyle. Possibly the discovery that sequins, like novelty, have a shelf life. I tried to introduce Brayden to it last year. This was met with the polite bafflement normally reserved for explaining landlines. This year, however, I had a reason to watch. A close friend of mine, Lewis Cope — recently of Emmerdale and of many years’ friendship — was drafted in at the last minute. Let’s be clear: Lewis is not a trained dancer. Yes, he played Michael in Billy Elliot at eleven. Yes, he once danced in a tap show. But then he did what actors do: he went to drama school. On Strictly, of course, anyone who can distinguish left from right is accused of an unfair advantage. The truth is it’s no longer really a dance competition. It’s a popularity poll with lifts. Lewis was theatrical, charismatic, skilled, and completely watchable. This week, though, he fell at that familiar hurdle: the public vote. A shame — but it doesn’t diminish the achievement. People got to see exactly what a generous, talented human being he is, and that matters more than a glitterball. Talking of conviction… My partner is currently organising another Venga World car show. Over the past year there have been brilliant events — Shoreditch, Monster HQ, Goodwood — all bringing together people united by a love of cars. A Porsche to a Peugeot. A Datsun to a Daimler. A Lexus to, in our case, another Lexus. If Venga World were subject to a public vote, it would win hands down. Mercifully, it isn’t — because nothing kills a good idea faster than asking twelve people to improve it. It works because Brayden makes the decisions himself. He takes the risks, does the hard work, and — unfashionably — sticks to what he believes in. No committee. No endless consultation. No watering-down in the name of consensus. Venga World knows exactly what it is. It’s free, it’s open, and it’s for anyone — provided you’re not planning wheelies, burnouts, or a focus group. Which, in itself, tells you everything you need to know. I’ve long believed the only committee that reliably works is a committee of one. Feedback is useful, but it is not a referendum. You can’t please all the people all the time — and history has provided us with several expensive reminders of that. So here’s the Christmas thought. Trust your judgement. Trust your skills. If you have a good idea, pursue it and stand by it. If it fails, take responsibility. If it succeeds, take the applause — briefly — and then do something just as good again. Happy Christmas. Happy holidays. Happy whatever you’re celebrating. And here’s to a 2026 with more conviction, fewer committees — and fewer things put to a vote that never needed one in the first place.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Finding Lomax (Or, Love in the Sainsbury’s Car Park)

Image
For the second time in my life, I have bought a new car. I say that with the kind of pride usually reserved for first-time parents or those who manage to grow tomatoes in hanging baskets. Most of my twenties were spent driving my dad’s cast-offs — including a white Ford Escort estate, which felt less like a car and more like a penance. I ask you: a white Ford Escort estate. It was less “motor vehicle” and more “mobile filing cabinet.” Then came a series of small, second-hand affairs: a green 2CV that got me through a year in Stratford — though the first time I pressed the accelerator, it went through the floor like a cartoon. That was followed by a bright orange Mini called Sebastian who gamely carried me through late-night rehearsals and even later-night chips in Soho. After Sebastian, there was Tristram Polo — a tank by comparison. Tristram was the scene of a minor disagreement with the law over the alcohol content of a bottle of Pinot Grigio. He was sold off quietly and cheaply, li...
Read more

To Read to Sleep

Image
I’ve always read in bed. Always. For as long as I can remember, really—since before the age when memories begin to settle into things you could recount. It’s never felt like a habit. More like an instinct. A deeply ingrained, highly enjoyable ritual, as natural as brushing your teeth, only infinitely more rewarding. In the little back bedroom of my parents’ house—next to their shops in the Soviet Socialist Republic of South Yorkshire—my first lamp stood on a marble-topped wash-hand stand. The only other furniture was my bed and a chest of drawers that looked like it had given up trying. The lamp itself was a silver lady, balancing on one leg, arm raised to the heavens, in the manner of the Rolls-Royce Spirit of Ecstasy, only this one had a perforated purple lampshade and an air of resignation. It was by her light that I discovered my first loves: Enid Blyton, the Fife-Finder Outers, the Seven Seeker Uppers, and Alfred Hitchcock Investigates—anything in a series. I was mad for a serie...
Read more

Fear No More the Heat of the Sun

Image
Fear No More the Heat of the Sun (Cymbeline Act IV sc2) Living on a boat, as we do, you become rather more aware of the weather than your average house-dweller. They check an app and think “Showers. I’ll wear my cagoule.” We, meanwhile, live it. We hear it. We occasionally have to mop it up with an old towel and a resigned expression. In winter, we go full cosy. There’s the reliable hum of central heating, the cheer of a decent wood-burner, and the comforting percussion of rain on a cambered roof. It’s like living inside one of those nostalgic Channel 5 Christmas films—only without the snow budget or the Canadian actors pretending to be British. There’s a smugness in being warm when the world outside looks like a scene from Chernobyl: The Musical. But come spring, we begin to crave the change. A proper sunny day—deck doors open, light pouring in, shirtsleeves and sunglasses at 6pm—feels like reward for good behaviour. Recently, we’ve had a string of such days. The kind of late s...
Read more