Alas poor Rog. We knew him as well as we were ever going to know him - nice guy, beautiful voice, kept falling over - and it was no great surprise that he got the boot from Dancing with the Stars last night. We'd had enough. We threw him to the lions. The lions tore him to shreds.
One by one, Judge Julz, Judge Rachel and Judge Camilla voted against Rog after the public vote had consigned him to the dreaded dance-off. He went up against Jess. He was never going to beat Jess. He looked a mess next to Jess. It was easy for the judges to assess. Jess had more; Rog had less. Rog was no, no, no; Jess was yes, yes, yes.
But he'd had a good run, and he'd been a good sport. He performed throughout the series with wit, charm, and impish delight. Plus he had a thing about the studio floor. His feet loved it but so did his hands and his knees. He fell over and dragged his partner down with him a few weeks ago, and last night he fell over again.
The first time, he tripped over his own feet, and went sprawling. Last night, he leaned forward, like a man peering over on the edge of a cliff. He leaned too far. He fell into the abyss. Darkness swallowed him. It happened so slowly; he was like a cake that someone left out in the rain, toppling from its stand, all that sweet icing flowing down ...
It was no great surprise that Rog got the boot. No tears, no drama. It suited the mood of last night's show. The whole thing was a bit of a fizzer. Nothing much happened, apart from the surprise appearance of communist principles.
To pad out the show, producers came up with the notion of pairing the dancers into two teams. The spectacle of the individual was sacrificed for group dancing. What's a nice idea like socialism doing in a show like this? The point of Dancing with the Stars is to witness the spectacle and talent of free enterprise. It's dancer vs dancer, it's dog eat dog. But last night everyone was equal, everyone was lumped together.
It turned everything into a dreary communist utopia, like those mass rallies the Soviets used to stage in the 1950s.
It made it difficult to notice the flair and confidence of the show's two best dancers, Sam and Shav. It made it difficult to detect the comedy and incompetence of David Seymour. It made it difficult to stay awake. I awoke from a slumber just in time to do the right thing. Text DAVID to 3333.
And so only five contestants remain. There's only a fortnight to go in this endearing, entertaining romp. Seymour is in a class of his own. Chris and Jess are in much the same boat - they're good, but are they great? The series is shaping up as a fight between Sam and Shav for the trophy which looks as if it was lovingly crafted by malnourished children in Bangladesh as part of a shipment to a $2 Shop near you. Who's going to take it? Sam, or Shav? Shav, or Sam? I don't take sides. I'm impartial. By the way, text SHAV to 3333.