Monday

If there’s one thing I hate, it’s sequins. Shiny bloody nonsense. Taking over my life. Taking over my dreams. Had one last night. There I was, on the steps of Downing Street. Margaret Thatcher turns up. She’s in sequins. I’m in sequins. Sequins bloody everywhere.

“Prime Minister!” I’m saying. “Do you have a statement?” “Of course I do, John,” says Thatcher, smoothly. “Step-two-three-kick, cha-cha-cha!” And there I am just nodding into my microphone. Sequins on the microphone. Woke up screaming. Stupid bloody show. I was meant to be off it weeks ago.

“I’m really sorry,” I say to the producer at today’s rehearsal. “I’m ruining the whole thing, aren’t I? You must be really annoyed.”

“Hmm?” he says, looking up from his desk where he’s sifting through a vast box of cash marked PHONELINE PROFITS. “Yeah. Gutted. Got your costume for next week all sorted, mate? Lots of sequins, yeah?” What sort of cretin even watches this thing? Why aren’t they watching the Channel 4 news?

Tuesday

All the other contestants hate me. What do I care? I hate them too. They like the sequins. They’re only here for the sequins. Awful people. Almost as bad as the viewers. So anyway, I’m stuck. I’m in the BBC canteen with my dance partner, the Russian.

“This is absurd,” I tell her. “People keep voting for me. Would they have kept voting for Thatcher, if she was rubbish? Would they have voted for Wilson or Blair?” The Russian looks confused. “Vitch series?” she says. “Never mind,” I say. “Oh Russian! Why don’t they care that we are rubbish?”

“I have won first Siberian dance competition at age 7,” says the Russian, haughtily. “I am not rubbish.”

Wednesday

I know this might sound stupid, but I genuinely thought this was going to be the jungle one. “Dingo eyeball for you, Mr Sergeant?” “Why thank you, Ant or Dec! Any sequins on it? No? Mmm. Delicious.” I could have done Celebrity Big Brother. Or that airline one. Wife Swap, anything. It’s my agent’s fault.

Didn’t mention the dancing, did he? I gave him a right bollocking when I found out. “Don’t worry John!” he says. “Just a bit of fun, raise the profile, and you’ll get booted off in a fortnight because you move like a bear without knees!” A***hole. It’s like prison. With sequins. Well, as of today, I’m resigned. Did a press conference. Smiled a lot and told the public that I was quitting for the other contestants, for the integrity of the show. Credulous fools. They’ll believe anything.

Thursday

Apparently Peter Mandelson is a fan. “Hello, Mr Political Journalist, Peter Mandelson here. I am your fan.” Raaaagh. Like somebody walking over my grave.

Friday

One last dance to get through this Saturday. The Russian says I’ve ruined her career. Says she could have had that rugby player, and won the thing.

Funny thing is, now I’m leaving, all the other contestants have started being really nice. People keep sidling up to me and asking if I can give them any tips for winning the public over, John Sergeant-style. So far, I’ve told Jodie Kidd to kick her chap in the testicles.

“What about me?” says the bloke from Holby City. “Make your trousers fall down,” I tell him, viciously. “And make sure you are wearing sequined pants.”

“But I always wear sequined pants,” says the bloke from Holby City.

See what I mean?

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