Donde el Amor is back.  This month he turns his Mexican eyes towards Strictly Come Dancing.  God help them.

Facebook’s good isn’t it? Aside from the obvious uses (communicating, frape, looking at pictures of your ex-girlfriend in a bikini before sobbing into your pillow, and uploading photos of your passed out housemate caked in condescend soup), it’s also a great social barometer.

Forget Twatter, with its’ perverse online stalking undertones, where bumbling middle-aged morons called #PeteyDee2465lol ogle ominously over every syllable to stumble from Twit-King Stephen Fry’s mouth, Facebook polling is where it’s at kids.

Using the magic of Facebook, I can actually deduce what people are watching on the magic glass box in the corner of their living rooms (or increasingly, in every room in the house). This week, as ever, it was the X-Factor.

Fortunately for you, I’ve spent most of my life preaching about the evils of the X-Factor. To me, picking on Cowell & go is like mercilessly ripping into the bespectacled fat ginger child at school. Yes it’s satisfying, it scratches an itch, everyone gets a bit of a (sometimes literal) kick out of it, but ultimately, it’s futile. It’s like clipping a dove’s wings with a stapler, then prodding it with a biro until it bleeds pathetically to death with a strangled whimper. There’s simply no challenge in it.

Not to be deterred from my predatory Facebook instincts, (I spend a lot of time lurking about there) I had a sift. And look what I found. That’s right, more photos of my ex-girlfriend in a bikini, some of you are harbouring a deep, dark secret.

Actually, it’s not a secret, you’ve posted it on Facebook, but it should be a secret. Some of you like watching Strictly Come Dancing. Don’t you? I can see you. There you are, on the bus, the cold lonely bus. The bus that now symbolises you. Cold, damp, alone, perennially late, and with a slightly stale odour. Now look about. Can you see me? There I am. I’m looking at you. I’m looking at you because you watch Strictly Come Dancing. This isn’t a look of pity either. It’s a look of shame. Now look back at the article.

You dirty, dirty little pervert. What are you doing? Strictly is for the elderly. I should imagine that if I was a real person, and not the result of a Mexican fertility clinic accident, I’ve have grandparents. They would watch the X-Factor. They would ride the bus alone. They would smell like cold Bovril and despair. They would be like you.

Now, I’ve come to realise over the years that ranting about something you haven’t seen can often lead to uncomfortable situations. Like the time I thought Jade Goody dying was a cynical bit of self-publication. That was an awkward month. Whilst I still think it’s quite satisfying that she’s dead, I appreciate that I shouldn’t share that sentiment in public again. Whoops. Naughty Donde.

So I watched it. Cajoling my housemate into tying me to the armchair, and subsequently ignoring any cries for help, I settled down this weekend, and watched an episode of Strictly Come Dancing.

I’m so glad my hand were tied up. I quite like my eyes. They’re useful, you know, for seeing stuff, undressing my ex-girlfriend when I see her in a bikini and glaring at people like you on the bus. Likewise my ears. Although they’re less proficient at the bikini part. Unfortunately, the sight of scrotum-faced-former-card-flipper-turned-professional-coffin-dodger Bruce Forsyth prancing about on stage amongst a crowd of people I’ve not heard of, before they teeter off backstage to be met by Tess “dead-behind-the-eyes” Daly made me want to tear my eyes out. With a soup spoon. Can you imagine how much mess that would cause? It’s not even remotely the right shape or size for the job. Luckily, the cutlery draw isn’t within reach of our sofa, so I soldiered on, having asked a passing house mate to hold my eyes open with surgical tape.

For those of you who don’t know, “Strictly” (as it’s deranged army of geriatric, sofa-wetting, Daily Mail reading fans call it) lasts an hour. That’s longer than it takes to stab a recently flightless dove to death with a biro. It’s torture.

It’s TV of the worst kind. Forget the exploitation of Big Brother, or the cringe worthy nature of anything that Ant & Dec are involved in, it’s just truly terrible. There are sequins. There are men in sequins. Where did all the real men go? Why are these men wearing lycra? Good God…is that Peter Shilton? England’s second greatest keeper ever? Is he wearing lycra? No. Please No Peter.

I grimaced for an hour. Still at least they haven’t got Ann Widecome on it, that would be nasty.

Oh Christ…that’s Ann Widecome. Dancing in sequins. Ladies, if you want to chemically castrate your gents in the near future, show them this. It’s on iPlayer for a month. Gents, be good for a month.

Short of digging up Mo Molam and getting her to do head spins to the theme tune for the musical Hair, I can think of nothing that is in worse taste than Ann Widecome dancing. She’s an Privy Counsellor for Christ’s sake. At what point in history was doing the cha-cha in the remit of being a Privy Counsellor? Do your job, you publicity seeking, diet avoiding waste of space. Argh.

Once it was all over, and my housemate had hidden all of our spoons, doves & biros I began to calm down slightly. On reflection, maybe it wasn’t all that bad. I mean…

No wait. It was. Stop watching it. Now. Stop it. Stop it. Look up again. Look out the bus window. See that dove? If you keep watching it, I’m going to kill it. With a biro. Sleep easy.

Until next month,

Donde El Amor