Trump as an ardent fan of Strictly is almost too believable. Picture him sprawled in what used to be the East Wing, sequinned robe, bucket of KFC, shouting at the telly every Saturday night. “Ten. Ten. Ten. Unless they are losers. Then zero.”
He has clearly concluded that Britain’s greatest cultural export is not Shakespeare, nor the NHS, but a ballroom dancing show with more glitter than good sense. He adores the American version too. Dancing with the Stars is essentially his political philosophy: fame equals virtue, clapping equals legislation.
So of course he wants to host it from the White House. Bulldoze the heritage, carpet the Oval Office in gold lamé, and replace the visitor tours with tango lessons. The show must go on. Constitution to follow, once the confetti cannons have cooled.
He imagines himself as Bruce Forsyth reincarnated. “Nice to see you - to see you nice. And you are all delighted to be here with your President. You love him. Everyone loves him. Even Craig would give me a ten. Unless he is very rude.”
The judging panel becomes geopolitical. Shirley Ballas at NATO. Anton du Beke running the CIA with unusually stylish shoes. Peace in our time negotiated via paso doble.
World leaders would be paired for ratings. Putin and Zelenskyy performing an Argentine Tango down the Grand Staircase, intense eye contact, both pretending not to notice the concealed daggers. The crowd roars, unsure whether to applaud or call a ceasefire.
Then, in the most controversial dance-off in broadcasting history, Netanyahu and whoever is currently leading Hamas trying to get through a rumba without throwing each other off the balcony. “Keep your frame, gentlemen. No annexing the dancefloor.”
The voting. The audience texts their choices. Trump declares it rigged if he gets fewer votes than Ed Balls doing a Charleston. Only one couple ever wins: Trump and Trump, waltzing around constitutional norms as if they were temporary stage props.
Press briefing. “Greatest ballroom built by any President. Obama never had a ballroom. He did not even have a rhumba room. Total failure. Everybody says so. Many people crying with joy. Beautiful tears.”
Meanwhile the Smithsonian quietly sobs into a hankie.
Strictly Come Dancing is harmless fun. Joyful nonsense. Which is exactly why it should never be confused with running a country. Although I suspect Trump would far rather foxtrot with D-list influencers than read intelligence briefings. Glitter does not answer back.
At least you know how it ends. Results night. He loses. He declares victory anyway. Then demands a recount. Then sues the judges. Then bans the judges. Then insists the trophy was his all along because he won the popular samba.
We laugh because it is ridiculous. We worry because it is not that far from reality.
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