Brendan Cole’s Global Cha-Cha: How One Shirtless Dancer Became the Last Soft-Power Superpower
Brendan Cole: the name that once echoed through British living rooms like the clink of a teacup has now drifted into the broader, bleaker auditorium of global pop culture. For those who missed the memo between missile launches and crypto crashes, Cole is the New Zealand-born ballroom dancer who spent fifteen years gliding across the BBC’s Strictly Come Dancing in open shirts so aggressive they could be sanctioned by the U.N. Security Council. Last week he announced a new international touring show—aptly titled “Last Man Dancing”—a phrase that carries the morbid optimism of someone who still believes in sequins while Rome (and the polar ice caps) burns.
From a strictly geopolitical standpoint, Cole’s resurgence is proof that soft power now wears Cuban heels. While Washington and Beijing trade tariffs like Pokémon cards, the former bad boy of ballroom is quietly conquering theatres from Dubai to Düsseldorf, one cha-cha at a time. His itinerary reads like a risk-assessment report: Warsaw (where audiences are nostalgic for anything pre-Putin), Singapore (where the government measures applause for potential dissent), and São Paulo (where inflation is so high the front-row tickets cost more than a kidney on the dark web). Yet Cole pirouettes on, a one-man sanctions package of glitter and pelvic thrusts.
Why does the planet suddenly care about a 47-year-old dancer whose most controversial act was once refusing to button his shirt below the sternum? Because in 2024, escapism is the last growth industry. While central banks raise interest rates faster than Cole raises an eyebrow, global consumers are voting with their wallets for anything that distracts from the slow-motion car crash called “late-stage capitalism.” In that context, a tango set to a-ha’s “Take On Me” isn’t just choreography; it’s cognitive behavioral therapy with a spray tan.
Of course, the international press can’t resist the tragicomic subplot: the Brexit exile. Cole was reportedly “too expensive” for post-EU BBC budgets—an austerity claim about as believable as a politician’s tears. Since then, he’s been hawking his talents in territories where the Queen’s English is spoken mainly by hotel concierges. The irony is delicious: a Kiwi who became a British household name now finds his safest gigs in countries that still think the United Kingdom is open for business. Somewhere in Brussels, a bureaucrat is drafting a white paper on the cultural consequences, but the Wi-Fi keeps cutting out.
Meanwhile, the broader significance: Brendan Cole is the test case for whether individual charisma can survive the algorithmic age. TikTok dancers half his age rack up billions of views by lip-syncing in sweatpants, yet Cole insists on live orchestras, bespoke tailoring, and actual footwork. It’s either heroic or delusional—possibly both. In Seoul, A.I. labs are already training deepfakes to replicate his hip action with 99.7% accuracy, while venture capitalists ponder subscription models for virtual ballroom. Cole’s response? “No substitute for sweat.” Admirable, until you remember that sweatshops already mass-produce cheaper imitations.
Still, one has to applaud the sheer gall. As COP delegates in Baku draft communiqués no one will read, Cole is drafting routines set to recycled ABBA tracks, thereby achieving what diplomats cannot: a carbon-neutral form of détente. Last month in Abu Dhabi, an Emirati sheikh and an Israeli tech mogul were spotted sharing popcorn at his show—proof that soft diplomacy can work, provided the lighting is flattering and the tempo doesn’t exceed 120 BPM.
The world will not be saved by a rumba, but if we’re going down, we might as well do it rhythmically. Brendan Cole’s global tour is less a comeback than a dress rehearsal for civilization’s last waltz—complete with pyrotechnics, overpriced prosecco, and the gentle, reassuring lie that somewhere, somehow, someone still knows which foot to put first.
