Blast from the Past: Dancing on Ice

When I was eight or nine, I was obsessed with The New Adventures of Superman (or, as my sojourn in the United States corrected me, "Lois and Clark" - Christ, what an awful name, no wonder they changed it). Anyway. I clearly remember one beautifully sunny Saturday being informed by my parents that I wouldn't be watching Dean Cain that night, because we were going to see Torvill and Dean for my older sister's birthday. This, in the days before a VCR, before YouTube, back in that dim and distant past when a TV programme missed was a TV programme missed, and that was that.

The trauma. The drama. The shouts. The threats. I vividly recall grabbing my father by his waist and saying I'd pay for the babysitter myself (big of me, considering he'd paid for Torvill and Dean). It was all to no avail. I was dragged thither to Wembley Arena, with no clear idea of who the hell Torvill and Dean were, or what they did; but totally convinced that whoever they were and whatever it was, it was rubbish: determined, in short, to ruin the whole thing.

It all changed that night. My childish infatuation with Dean Cain was revealed to be the immature delusions of a girlish imagination! My one true love was Christopher Dean. It was all clear to me now. Of course, Jayne Torvill impressed me too (even though I thought she had horrible hair, a fact I stand by - the poor woman had dreadful hair for twenty years, though happily she's sorted it out now), even now I can feel the goosebumps I felt watching them all those years ago. After that night, Superman was never quite the same again.

In the intervening fifteen or so years, I mostly forgot about Torvill and Dean. I went ice skating once, fell over, realised that ice was cold and hard; observed that I was unlikely to rival Jayne Torvill enough to tempt Christopher Dean away, and left again. I know I saw them lose at the 1994 Olympics, and took it personally. I saw Bolero repeatedly on a various things, and wondered what I'd seen in Christopher Dean, but of course Bolero was ten years before I had come across them, and the intervening ten years had been extremely kind to him. As, in fact, have all the years, to both of them.

Then, suddenly, Dancing on Ice. I was at university for the first series, and my flatmate lived in a state of perpetual fear that our lack of television licence would cause the vengeance of Tony Blair to crash through the door at any given moment, so our TV watching was strictly limited to Hollyoaks, Neighbours and Doctor Who. Occasionally we could branch out, but a talent show was not considered a big enough priority to risk imprisonment. Then I was in America for series 2. So, this year, good God. I don't like reality TV. I hate it. But my life actually feels a bit empty now Dancing on Ice has finished.

It was brilliant in so many ways. Behold Philip Schofield trying to look anywhere but at the demurely dressed Holly Willoughby's gaping front! Swoon at Christopher Dean's apparently endless supply of flattering, scrumptious shirts! Cheer as, perhaps for the first time in television history, the right person won (well done Suzanne!)! Wow as Jayne Torvill and Christopher Dean apparently can't do anything not in time! Speculate as to whether they have fought or not before the show, if he kisses her head and she looks annoyed about it (this happened two or three times, and my sister and I would lose interest in the next fifteen minutes as we pondered the possible scenerios)!

I am completely back to applauding my ten-year-old self's sense of taste in men, not to mention in entertainmnet, and may practice an axel in my room tonight, happily without ice. Christopher Dean and Jayne Torvill: God bless you. You are amazing dancers. But most of all: you soppy old romantics, you. I am a cold-hearted individual, and yet your routines warm even my cockles. Them were the days.

And thank God for YouTube. That paso doble blows my mind every single time.