Strictly Come Dancing 2025: How a British Ballroom Show Just Became the UN in Sequins

The 2025 series of *Strictly Come Dancing* premiered last Saturday, and the planet—still busy juggling wars, elections, and the slow-motion car crash formerly known as “the climate”—paused for two hours to watch celebrities in diamanté try not to fall over. From Kyiv to Caracas, viewers tuned in to see whether a former oligarch’s niece could master the cha-cha while the ruble did its own dramatic dip. Such is the soft-power suction of the BBC’s sequined juggernaut that even nations without reliable electricity somehow found a generator long enough to watch Anton du Beke raise an eyebrow.

Global significance? Oh, absolutely. When the Argentine tango appears on primetime in 178 countries, it’s no longer mere entertainment; it’s a geopolitical seduction. The Foreign Office quietly calculates that each flick of Shirley Ballas’s wrist is worth 0.03% in trade-deal approval ratings—roughly the same bump Britain received when it remembered how to queue at airports. Meanwhile, the Chinese state broadcaster cut to a cooking segment the moment two male dancers shared a same-sex Charleston, proving that censorship, like bad footwork, can also be out of step.

Contestants this year form a United Nations of minor fame: a Japanese robotics tycoon hoping to prove that algorithms can indeed feel rhythm; a Malian eco-activist who promised to recycle every discarded feather boa into insulation for refugee shelters; and, for reasons known only to the gods of casting, a disgraced crypto influencer currently on bail in three jurisdictions. Their opening group dance resembled a NATO summit after the coffee runs out—lots of forced smiles and strategic elbowing.

Bookmakers in Singapore report record volumes, surpassing even the last U.S. election, which says something about either human priorities or the reliability of electronic voting machines. In Lagos, viewing parties have become informal currency exchanges: one samba roll equals two packets of subsidised petrol. And in Moscow, oligarchs host clandestine *Strictly* salons where the penalty for a botched lift is a one-way conversation with a window.

Of course, the show’s producers insist none of this is political. “We’re just here to sparkle,” executive producer Sarah James told reporters, while standing beneath a lighting rig powered—ironically—by a diesel generator running on sanctioned oil. Still, the subtext flashes brighter than a rhinestone. When the Ukrainian contestant received a sympathy 10 after dedicating his Viennese waltz to “everyone who still has a living room left,” one could almost hear diplomatic cables rustling in applause.

The real dark comedy lies in how seriously we all pretend it’s only a dance show. Every swivel becomes a referendum on national resilience; every spray tan, a metaphor for the thin veneer we slap on collapsing institutions. When the judges praise “great frame,” they may as well be complimenting the IMF on another sturdy austerity package. And when the public votes to save the least talented but most tearful celebrity, one recognises the same algorithm that keeps certain governments in office: emotion trumps competence, sequins beat spreadsheets.

By week three, expect think-pieces arguing that the paso doble is a neo-colonial construct, TikToks teaching the Gaza Strip shuffle, and Elon Musk tweeting that if he partnered with AI judges he could eliminate unconscious bias—and replace it with conscious profit. Somewhere in Geneva, a UN subcommittee will draft a resolution condemning excessive use of glitter in areas of water scarcity.

Yet, for all the cynicism, there is something almost heroic in humanity’s insistence on finding rhythm while the roof caves in. The final irony: the world may be burning, but at least it’s doing so in 4K with a salsa beat. If we’re going down, we’ll go down doing the jive—badly, chaotically, but together. And in that shared, sequined stumble lies a flicker of solidarity brighter than any firework finale.

Whether that will be enough to save us remains as unscripted as the freestyle round. Until then, keep dancing, dear planet. The judges are watching, the clock is ticking, and the music—like the mortgage rate—shows no sign of slowing.